


On RWBY Wings

by sentinel28II



Category: RWBY
Genre: Action/Adventure, Air combat, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Combat, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Military Background, Modern Retelling, Top Gun Meets RWBY, War, Wild Drunken Parties On Occasion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 89
Words: 290,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21859288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sentinel28II/pseuds/sentinel28II
Summary: Four fighter pilots--2nd Lieutenant Ruby Rose and Captain Yang Xiao Long of the USAF, Lieutenant Blake Belladonna of the USMC, and Oberleutnant Weiss Schnee of the Luftwaffe--come to Joint Base Beacon to learn how to fly and fight against humanity's greatest challenge in the wake of the devastating Third World War: the GRIMM.  Luckily, they'll pick up a lot of friends along the way, but also make a lot of enemies. Friendships will be made, friendships will be broken, secrets will be revealed.  Heroes will rise, victims will fall.Welcome to Vytal Flag, the ultimate game where the losers die and the winners only get a chance to play again.  Welcome to the Remnant...of the United States.Cross-posted at FF.net.
Comments: 285
Kudos: 143





	1. Red Sector A

**Author's Note:**

> AUTHOR’S NOTES: It’s all my friend Darren’s fault. Here I am, an innocent historian and occasional fanfic writer, desperate for the muse to return and help me finish Snowbird’s Tigers or Evangelion Evolution, and Darren finally convinces me to sit down and watch RWBY. Meh, why not? Ponies are coming to an end and Monster Musume isn’t getting a second season and I need something to watch…  
> …and wow.  
> Other than a few random AMVs and cosplay, I’d never really known much about what hath Rooster Teeth wrought, but after the tragedy of Season 3, I was hooked. (Funny how that works. I was hooked on Game of Thrones after the Red Wedding, too. Sweet Celestia, I’ve become Meroune.) So after marathoning RWBY Chibi—twice—and burning through the RWBY manga, the muse finally decided to wake her lazy ass up and whisper in my unsuspecting ear, “You like it, don’t you? You want to write FANFICTION, DON’T YOU?” Yep, my muse is mean. A couple of hours of brainstorming, and here you go.  
> What world is this, you ask? This isn’t my Remnant! Ah, but it is…with a twist.  
> I hope everyone enjoys this and doesn’t mind a RWBY noob let loose in Monty’s universe. If not, put it down to another of Nora’s caffeine trips…

**_ON RWBY WINGS_ **

**_A RWBY Fanfiction of an Alternate Sort_ **

**_By Sentinel 28A_ **

_Above the Ohio Dead Zone, United States of Canada_

_April 11, 2001_

Roman Torchwick was having a very good day. 

The life of an air pirate was not easy, even one that tended to be rather good at his job, and occasionally well-financed. Preying on the air traffic that linked the remnant of the United States together could be difficult, because the larger flights tended be well-escorted. Taking on the United States Air Force was often a losing prospect, and many outlaw bands were wiped out trying to go for the big score. Torchwick was different, however: he waited, patiently, for his prey to make a slip. 

And now they had. 

The smaller flights tended to be unescorted, or at best would have a mercenary or two along. They were just as often not worth it. The occasional small fry was worth it to pay for fuel or armament, but they rarely had anything of value. This one, however, was different. 

Torchwick grinned behind his oxygen mask and leveled his white Sea Harrier, locking on the radar. “Dawn Airlines Flight 7513, this is Roman One. Lower your landing gear and surrender. Don’t bother calling for help—you’re being jammed.” 

Torchwick caught sight of Dawn Airlines Flight 7513. It was a Boeing 757, which in theory might be able to give his diminutive Sea Harrier a run for its money on speed. On the other hand, it was an unarmed transport. Nestled underneath Torchwick’s wings were four AIM-9 Sidewinder heatseeking missiles, and the 757 made for a very warm target. His gloved fingers closed on the trigger. They needed this shipment intact, but he _did_ have a reputation to consider.

The 757’s landing gear dropped, the international aerial code for surrender. 

“Very good, Dawn 7513. I’m glad you’re a sensible one.” He pushed up the throttle, outdistanced the airliner, and took up position in front of it. “Now if you have this strange attachment to your head, you’ll follow me. You can’t see it, but there are four other armed aircraft behind you, and every one of them wouldn’t mind ventilating your derriere with various sharp, supersonic objects. I, however, am a businessman, and I would very much like to purchase the cargo you have aboard. And by ‘purchase’ I mean ‘steal.’” He waggled his wings at them—which was not just a taunt, but a motion to follow, and began a long, turning descent. “We have no use for a cargo aircraft, so be a good boy and remain on course, and you’ll keep your plane. And don’t worry; the radiation down there isn’t too terribly bad.” Which was true, Torchwick reflected. It had been almost forty years since a Soviet missile had turned Akron into ashes, after all. 

“Roman One, Roman Five. I have a bogey on scope.”

Torchwick spared a quick glance behind and to the left. He did not fly alone on these jobs; he had been provided four other aircraft, flown by what could euphemistically be called henchmen. Unlike himself, the henchmen were not flying anything terribly modern, but F-5E Tiger IIs. They weren’t much, but they were mainly there for intimidation, and in the right hands, even a F-5 could be quite deadly. And best of all, they were cheap. Modern aircraft weren’t easy to maintain, and one had to make do.

“Roman Five,” Torchwick sighed, “would you mind telling me _where_ this bogey might be?” 

“Uh, sorry, Roman One. Bogey is at 12 o’clock, 25 miles and closing.” 

“Just one?”

“Roger, Roman One. He’s a single.”

Torchwick considered that. It was almost certainly not military. USAF aircraft flew in pairs, and he’d been assured that this flight was unescorted—amazing, considering what Dawn 7513 was carrying, but that was his information. 

One way to find out. “Roman Four and Five, lock him up.” With two air-to-air radars locked onto the bogey, it would give the other pilot something to think about, and to break off. 

There was a pause as the outlaw formation continued its descent, then a slightly high-pitched voice said incredously, “Are you spiking me?” There was another pause, of approximately three seconds. Then Torchwick’s radar warning gear lit up.

“Roman One, Roman One! Missiles inbound!” 

“No shit!” Torchwick shouted, and broke hard to the left, then back to the right. The RWR light went off, but already he could see two faint smoke trails. The missiles weren’t locked on him. 

“Roman Four! I’m spiked! I’m—“ The F-5 disintegrated as one of the missiles guided directly into it. Roman Five did not even have time for that, but was luckier than his wingman: as the F-5 became a torch, the canopy came off and the pilot ejected. The other two F-5s scattered. Dawn 7513’s crew evidently had figured out that they were now in the middle of a dogfight: they raised their landing gear and their shallow descent became a rapid one.

That was not the issue at hand, however. Torchwick slammed the throttle forward. Whoever he was facing had radar-guided missiles, and a longer reach; he needed to get in close with his Sidewinders. A glint of sunlight off canopy, and Torchwick cursed again: his opponent was closing the distance as well, and the angle was wrong; he could not quite get a shot. Then he got a glimpse of what he was fighting.

It was an F-16. The single tail, blended fuselage, and wingtip rails were a giveaway. It also wore USAF camouflage of dark gray, except for the wingtips and fuselage spine. They were bright red. Then the fighter was hidden by an explosion of moisture as the F-16 reached the speed of sound and surpassed it. 

_Very well._ Torchwick pulled hard on the stick, and used the Harrier’s vectored thrust to cheat the turn tighter. The F-16 was faster—the Sea Harrier was subsonic—but whoever he was fighting also had their afterburner on, and that provided for a very nice heat source. The Sidewinders growled in his ears as they sensed the heat, but then the growl ceased as the F-16 came out of ‘burner and turned hard to meet Romans Two and Three, who were circling around to try and flank their opponent. Torchwick sighed again as the F-16 went between the two F-5s; neither had a chance for even a hasty shot. He locked his engine nozzles back into place and firewalled the throttle to catch up. 

The two F-5s had split up—a sensible maneuver, given that it would force the F-16 pilot to choose between them, with the possibility that the other would drop onto the F-16’s tail. The break was poorly executed, however: while Roman Two was diving and turning to pick up energy, Roman Three was losing airspeed in a climb. He realized it and began rolling over into a dive himself, but by that time the F-16 had already completed a punishing eight-G turn, rolled to bleed off some airspeed, and was now squarely behind Roman Two. Torchwick opened his mouth to order a break, but already there was a flash of light from the F-16’s port wingtip as the pilot fired a Sidewinder. A second later, and Roman Two was in a flat spin for the earth fifteen thousand feet below them, flames consuming the entire rear fuselage of the F-5. The pilot ejected.

“Good help is _so_ hard to find,” Torchwick mused, but now he was in position for a shot himself—extreme range, but better than nothing. His Sidewinders growled again as they picked up the heat of the F-16. They could home in on the heat of his enemy’s canopy, if necessary. They began to growl even louder, insistent, angry, wanting the kill as much as he did. His finger closed on the trigger. 

Torchwick then realized the Sidewinders weren’t tracking on the F-16, but Roman Three. The F-5 came up almost directly in front of him as the henchman blocked the target. He broke lock, shouting “You dumbass! Roman Three, clear the target!”

Roman Three didn’t hear him. All he saw was red, because this lone F-16 pilot had just gunned down three of his friends. As Torchwick slowed down, he saw that the F-16 was doing the same: the butterfly-like speedbrakes opened slightly as the pilot shed speed. It was a mistake, as speed was life in a dogfight. The brakes closed almost as soon as they opened, and the nose of the F-16 pointed upwards into a climb—which would shed even more speed, and present a perfect target for Roman Three’s own heatseekers, against a clear blue sky. The F-5 began to climb as well.

Then the F-16 snap-rolled downwards, disappearing from Roman Three’s sight in an instant. As Torchwick watched, the fighter dived for a second, rolled, and climbed again, converting the kinetic energy of the dive to speed. An experienced F-5 pilot would have already broken off, evaded, or done something, but Roman Three was inexperienced, and he was panicked. “Roman Three,” Torchwick warned, “he’s below you! Break, you damn fool!” 

It was too late. Another flash of a missile launch, this time from the starboard wingtip, and the F-5 was blown in half. Torchwick shook his head in disgust. “You were worth every cent…truly, you were.” 

Yet now, finally, Torchwick had his chance. The F-16 could accelerate in a climb and was doing so as it sped past the burning remains of Roman Three, but Torchwick had dived himself, and now came up behind his opponent. It had been what Roman Three was trying for, and though the F-16 was not in afterburner, it was a nice little target against the sky. 

Then once more, his RWR suite lit up, and a shrill tone in his helmet earphones told him someone was locked on—this time, on him. It wasn’t the F-16, who was pointed away from him, but a new threat. A quick glance at the radar showed a new opponent, coming down fast from the northwest. Torchwick snorted; undoubtedly, Dawn 7513 had finally gotten out a radio call, or someone had noticed the dogfight. He doubted that the F-16 pilot had called for help. 

He glanced at the F-16. The pilot had popped their speedbrakes again, trying cause an overshoot, but Torchwick was not about to fall for that old trick. His Harrier could stand still in midair, if necessary. He was now close enough to see the tail of his enemy: the lighter gray scheme in contrast to the dark gray of the rear fuselage, the SG tailcode and data block, and most interestingly, the red scythe that covered the rudder and curved over the top of the tail. “Well, Red,” he said over the open channel, “I think we can all agree it’s been an interesting day. And as much as I’d like to stick around, this is where we part ways.” He pressed the trigger, twice. 

Two Sidewinders leapt out towards the F-16—he was actually too close for the missiles, as they would be lucky to guide at this range. That was not necessarily what he was after, however: Torchwick let the Sea Harrier fall onto its back, dropped into a dive, and flew out in the opposite direction. The F-16 would be too busy evading the missiles; sure enough, a quick look behind saw the other aircraft in a corkscrew, flares spinning away to decoy missiles that were already lofting away, doggedly but overoptimistically trying to lock onto the sun. 

He returned his attention to the RWR, and knew his problems were far from over. The F-16 was no immediate threat, but whatever the second aircraft that was tracking him was. It was closing in, fast, and would be in missile range in seconds. 

Torchwick gritted his teeth. “Cinder One, Roman One. I could use some…help.” Another look at the RWR display. He had a bad feeling he knew what it was. “We have a huntress.” 

There was no reply, but something flashed by high and to his left. A glimpse of red—a deeper red than the F-16’s highlights—and missile trails, four of them, shot from the red aircraft. _That should give our friends something to ponder._

All in all, it had not been a very good day after all.

“Unidentified F-16, this is Witch Lead. Break now, chaff!”

2nd Lieutenant Ruby Rose did exactly as ordered, especially as there were two missiles locked onto her F-16. She dove hard, twisted and turned, and punched a button on the side of her throttle. Small aluminium bundles dropped from her aircraft and spread in its slipstream, presenting a bigger radar target. One missile track dropped from her RWR display as that missile began chasing the chaff, but the other doggedly remained locked onto her. She had mere seconds before impact. 

Then suddenly, that missile broke away as well. All three curved towards the speck that was Witch Lead, as that pilot switched on their electronic countermeasures—broadcasting enough noise that the enemy missiles, programmed to home on jam, locked on. “Witch Lead, they’re on you!”

“I am well aware of that,” the voice snapped back. The speck suddenly went into a dance that Ruby could not hope to follow with even her superb vision. It rolled and changed direction at random, punctuated by the occasional flare. The missiles, confused, flew off in every direction, eventually to run out of fuel and crash as they could no longer locate a target. 

Witch Lead turned in Ruby’s direction, and, to her delight, the speck grew to the shape of a F-22 Raptor. It looked otherworldly—broad fuselage, canted twin tails, engines hidden behind flat vectored nozzles, sharp nose, golden canopy. Even the dark gray splotched camouflage lended the Raptor an alien quality. On the tail, in subdued lettering she could barely read, was the tailcode BN. “Witch Lead to unidentified F-16—“

Ruby broke in. “This is Red One! I’m a flight from Signal to Beacon. I heard a brief distress call from Dawn Airlines Flight 7513, and someone locked onto me! Well, I wasn’t taking _that,_ and they were obviously hostile, so—“

“Red One,” Witch Lead overrode her, “cut the chatter. Take up position on my right and let’s head for Beacon. Dawn 7513 is safe. What is your fuel state?”

Ruby checked her fuel gauge, and went a little pale—more pale—beneath her bright red helmet and black oxygen mask. “Er…my state is joker.” She was not much above bingo fuel, what was needed to get to the nearest airfield. Below her was still the Ohio Dead Zone; Beacon was a good three hundred miles off, as the crow, or F-16, flew. 

“Roger. Follow me.” 

Ruby spared a quick look around—for the white Sea Harrier, for whatever had salvoed four missiles at them in one second, then at her empty RWR display and radar scope, then back to the F-22. Witch Lead was staring at her, her purple helmet stark against the Raptor’s gold canopy, so Ruby sheepishly dropped back into formation. “Witch Lead, Red One. Can I ask a question?”

“Go ahead, Red One.” The voice was irritated, impatient.

“When we get down…can I…can I have your autograph?”


	2. The Story in Your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruby lands at O'Hare to meet with Lieutenant Colonel Glynda Goodwitch, who isn't happy with her...and Captain Ozpin, who is.

_Chicago-O’Hare International Airport_

_Chicago, Illinois, United States of Canada_

_11 April 2001_

Ruby Rose raised the canopy, letting in a blast of cool air. She shivered, but luckily Chicago was experiencing unusually warm weather for early April. It was still colder than what Ruby was used to at Signal. She took off her helmet, unstrapped, and climbed down to the tarmac. She gave her F-16 a quick once over as ground crew began running fuel hoses to it. Hopefully they would not be here long before making the short trip north to Beacon. Her quick look confirmed her hopes: her beautiful _Crescent Rose_ had not so much as picked up a scratch in the dogfight. She ran her hands over the aircraft’s name, emblazoned in red script on the F-16’s underslung intake.

The airport around her was a buzz of activity, with aircraft of every shape and size coming in from across the USC and the world. Ruby was an aircraft enthusiast and historian—fanatic would be a better term—but right now what filled her vision was the sight of Witch Lead stomping across the tarmac from her F-22. Unlike Ruby’s immaculate olive drab flight suit and G-suit, Witch Lead’s suit showed some wear and tear; it had faded from long flights in the sun. As the other woman got closer, Ruby saw subdued silver oakleaves on her shoulders. Her nametape, in purple-edged black, read LT COL GOODWITCH. Ruby could not help but glance at the subdued yellow bars on her own shoulders. 

“Lieutenant Rose, follow me.” Goodwitch thumbed towards a nearby hangar. Her tone brooked no argument. Head down, Ruby followed her into the hangar. They made their way past two regional jets down for maintenance and into a corner office. After Goodwitch shut the door, the office was unpleasantly dark. 

Goodwitch pointed to a metal chair, and Ruby sat quickly. She then faced the young lieutenant from across the room. Her voice was quiet. “You should know, Lieutenant, that Dawn Airlines Flight 7513 successfully landed here in Chicago just after we did. Its crew and cargo are safe.”

“Oh…well…that’s good,” Ruby replied, after a long silence. Goodwitch evidently expected some answer.

“You should be commended for saving them. Roman Torchwick’s gang usually release their captives after getting ransom, but they have been known to kill hostages on occasion. They’re certainly known for shooting down anyone who doesn’t comply and land at one of their outlaw fields.” 

“Well, thank you, ma’am—”

“What you _should_ have done was let us handle it!” Goodwitch shouted, nearly sending Ruby backwards out of her chair. “You’re a ferry flight with _specific_ orders to fly from Signal to Beacon and nothing else! Why in the name of Zeus’ balls were you even carrying missiles? And what happened to your drop tanks?” Before Ruby could answer, Goodwitch cut her off. “Let me guess. Punched them off before you engaged? Two drop tanks that the taxpayers paid for are now somewhere in the Ohio Dead Zone.” 

“Um, well, of course. You should never carry external tanks into a dogfight—my uncle Qrow taught me that like the first day and—”

“And the missiles?”

“Ma’am, with respect, the Dead Zones are dangerous and—”

“And you fluttered those big silver eyes of yours at the idiot who commands Signal and he said ‘Load live AMRAAMs and Sidewinders!’”

“He felt that it would be good training—”

“And what if that had been a military flight you engaged? One of ours? The Navy still flies F-5s, you know. It could’ve been a training exercise! Instead you shot two of them down with ranged shots before you even had time to identify them!”

“They started it!” Ruby exclaimed. “They locked on me first—”

“Enough!” Goodwitch shouted, slamming her hands down on the table. “If it were up to me, you’d be sent home, with a pat on the back and my boot up your ass!” She subsided as she straightened up. “But, for reasons known only to him, someone wants to talk to you.” 

The office door opened to admit a rather tall man with gray hair, wearing the dress blues and four stripes of a US Navy captain. Ruby gaped for a moment, then shot to her feet, standing at rigid attention. Then she noticed three things in succession: the man walked with a cane, he carried a tray of cookies, and atop an impressive five rows of ribbons and below a set of golden wings was a single small, blue one with five stars. Her mouth went dry. _Medal of Honor._

“Ah, Lieutenant Ruby Rose.” He set the cookies down. They were freshly baked chocolate chip ones, and the smell made her stomach audibly rumble. He peered closer at her over the rims of pince-nez glasses. “You have silver eyes.”

Ruby had no idea how to answer that one. Her stomach growled again like a Sidewinder noticing a heat trail.

“Sit down, sit down,” the man said. Ruby took her seat. “Do you know who I am?”

“You’re Captain Ozpin, the CO at Joint Base Beacon.”

He smiled. “Very good.” He leaned on the cane. “According to what Colonel Goodwitch here tells me, you splashed four bandits in less than two minutes, by yourself with no support. Not bad at all. Where did you learn to do that?”

“Signal.” Ruby placed her hands over her stomach to quiet its growling. 

“I wasn’t aware Signal Air Force Base had opened a weapons school.” He looked over to Goodwitch, and Ruby followed his gaze. On one of her shoulders was the crosshaired patch of the USAF Fighter Weapons School at Hill AFB, Utah, indicating she was a graduate. Ruby was still a year or two from even being considered for selection for the school. “Please, Lieutenant, help yourself to the cookies. The growling is getting worse.”

Ruby tentatively tried a cookie. They were as good as they smelled. Taking Ozpin’s smile as permission to continue, she began devouring them. He continued as she ate. “You fly an older ADF-model F-16, I noticed. I’ve only known a few other pilots capable of getting that much out of an older design.” His smile turned wistful. “A dusty old crow…”

“Oh! Thampff mah uflncle Qforw!” Ozpin’s smile broadened. Goodwitch rolled her eyes. Ruby choked down the four cookies in her mouth, then nodded vigorously. “I mean, that’s my uncle Qrow, sir. He began training my sister and me when we were kids. He’s assigned as an instructor at Signal. I mean, I was complete _shit_ before he took me under his wing, no pun intended, and…” Her voice trailed off as she realized she had just cursed in front of a superior officer. Two of them, in fact.

Ozpin laughed. “I see he did not teach you tact.”

Ruby quieted. “No, sir,” she said in a half-whisper.

“So what brings a girl like yourself to Beacon? According to your personnel file, you still have two years left on your tour at Signal.”

“I want to be a Huntress. Sir,” Ruby belatedly added.

“Ah. So you want to hunt monsters.”

“Yes, sir.” She looked at the now empty plate of cookies. “I know I’m not eligible for selection for Vytal Flag until I’m done at Signal. My sister just got chosen, however, and I wanted to see her. And Beacon. So Uncle Qrow and Major Oum got me a three-day pass and ferry orders. My sister’s going to make it through the training, sir. She’s going to become a Huntress. I want to as well, because I want to help others like my parents taught me, and I might as well make a career out of it.” Her excitement bubbled. “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with flying air defense missions over the East Coast Dead Zones and all, but the action’s out west with the Hunters and Huntresses and they’re just so damn _cool_ and exciting, and…” She trailed off again. “I’m sorry, Captain.”

“Don’t be. Such enthusiasm is commendable.” He half-sat on the table. “So, Lieutenant Ruby Rose, you want to come to my school?” 

“Yes, sir. More than anything, sir.”

“Well. Okay then.” He stood. “I’ll have the transfer orders ready by the time you reach Beacon.” Ozpin ignored the sounds of rupture coming from Goodwitch. “You’re a bit young for Vytal, but there’s going to be no one else there with four kill marks on their aircraft. Ridding the Remnant of four air pirates is to be commended…even if your judgement is not. But we can work on that.” He held out a hand. “Well, Lieutenant?”

Ruby’s silver eyes were as big as platters. She practically leapt out of the chair, grasped Ozpin’s hand with both of hers, and shook vigorously. “Oh, yes, sir! Yes, sir!” He pried his hand away from Ruby’s before she hurt either one of them.

“Your aircraft should be fueled by now, so I will see you later today, perhaps. Dismissed, Lieutenant.” She nearly saluted him, then remembered the regulation about saluting indoors, and instead crashed to attention with parade-ground precision, pivoted on one foot, and marched out the door. As it closed behind them, they could hear her running through the hangar, screaming “YES! YES! YES!” at the top of her lungs. 

“I can’t believe you just did that,” Goodwitch said. Her expression was measuring Ozpin for a straitjacket.

“She’s good, Glynda. Very good.”

“She’s also young, reckless, and stupid. My God, Ozpin, flying _alone_ into a dogfight, outnumbered five to one? That goes against everything we teach at Beacon—that goes against everything they teach in boot camp!” She shook her head. “Her Officer Evaluation Report says it all. She’s a wild card. Flies by the seat of her pants. Completely unpredictable.”

“She won, didn’t she?”

Goodwitch glared at him. “Yes,” she admitted after a moment.

Ozpin stared at the empty plate. “A girl with silver eyes,” he mused. “I flew with her uncle over China.” He looked at Goodwitch. “Tell me one thing. If you had to fly into battle…would you want her with you?”

“I don’t know,” Goodwitch replied quietly. “I just don’t know.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are shameless references to Top Gun in this chapter. I'm not sorry. Enjoy! And if you do, please leave a review. Kudos are great, but I love to hear from readers.
> 
> The "ADF" version of the F-16 is one that has been modified for the interceptor role. They are older models, and most are now out of service; in 2001, only a few USAF units still flew them. None fly them today There's as much distance technologically and chronologically between the older F-16 A models and the F-22 as there is between the P-51 Mustang and the F-16 itself.
> 
> Without getting too technical, the AMRAAM is a long-range fire and forget missile-it guides itself. The Sidewinder is a heat-seeker. For those of you who are Top Gun fans, all of Maverick's kills in the movie were done with Sidewinders.


	3. I'm So Excited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruby's punched her ticket for Vytal Flag and Joint Base Beacon, and she's happy to see her sister Yang there too. But she'll be meeting other people too, and not all of them are going to be as friendly as Yang...for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried to at least be somewhat accurate in military usage and such without being too technical. There's a lot of airplane pron in this; if that's not your bag, you can skip those parts. Technically, the Silent Eagle would not be out in 2001-the first one is still in experimental stage in 2019-but I'm pretty sure a story that will shortly involve Grimm shouldn't be too concerned with that level of accuracy. And yes, Weiss in this chapter is channeling her inner Asuka Langley-Soryu, while Ruby is acting like I do when at the Pima Air Museum or the National Museum of the USAF. Drool drool.
> 
> And just to be clear, when Ruby talks about waxing someone's butt, that's fighter pilot talk for shooting them down (simulated or otherwise). You shippers have enough on your minds. ;)

_Near Joint Base Beacon_

_Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_11 April 2001_

“Red One, Beacon Approach. You are number five for landing.”

“Roger that, Beacon. Number five.” Ruby Rose settled back in her seat. She was in a holding pattern over the southern rolling hills of Wisconsin. The dense trees below her were beginning to bloom and turn from dead brown to vibrant green. It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky, and she allowed herself a moment of to enjoy it. 

Ruby looked around the cockpit. Her right hand rested lightly on the stick; she knew that the slightest of taps would cause the F-16 to go into a roll. Her left hand was on the throttle; with plenty of fuel, if she wanted to, she could slam the throttle forward, go into a climb, and keep accelerating until the sky around her turned such a deep blue it was nearly black. Her feet sat on the rudder pedals and she leaned back in a seat specifically designed for high-G combat. Her _Crescent Rose_ was as old as she was, 19 years, and theoretically outclassed by newer fighters like Goodwitch’s F-22, but it was hers—on loan from the United States government, of course, but hers. 

“Hey, Red One. Check six.” The voice came through her helmet earphones.

Ruby instinctively twisted around in her seat. Sitting behind her F-16, less than a mile away, was a F-15, its nose lined up nicely with her tail. It could be one of a thousand USAF F-15s, but the yellow nose left no doubt who it was. 

Ruby grinned beneath her mask. “Back off, Ember Lead, or I’ll pop a flare in your face.”

The laughter in her earphones was overridden by Beacon Approach telling Ember Lead that her spacing was off and she was too close to Red One. The F-15 backed off. “See you on the ground, Red One.”

Ruby laughed. Trust her sister to find her in the middle of a holding pattern with four other fighters milling around. Ruby tightened her straps and pulled off some power, slowing the F-16 down. She was about to reply to Beacon Approach’s call that she was now number four for landing when a new voice blasted across the airwaves. “Beacon Control, Crocea One! I’m declaring an emergency! I need a straight-in approach immediately! I say again, immediately!”

Beacon Approach was professional. “Roger that, Crocea. Milo One, land immediately and take the first available exit from the runway. Stormflower, Red One, Ember Lead, Myrtenaster, execute right turn; maintain spacing and pattern. Crocea, you are cleared for a straight-in approach. Winds are steady out of the east…”

Ruby turned her F-16 right, keeping an eye on the pattern. Behind her, about two miles back, was the F-15 and the speck of another aircraft. When the latter turned, Ruby noticed the angular lines of a Eurofighter Typhoon. Once she was in place and maintaining separation, she looked to the left to find Crocea One. It was a Mirage 2000, its mottled gray camouflage stark against the brown trees. She didn’t see fire or smoke, but Crocea was already flaring to land, with the landing gear cycling down. Ruby wondered what it was; like her own F-16, the Mirage was fly-by-wire, kept in the air by a system of microprocessors. If one went haywire, it could be real trouble. The pilot would not have declared an emergency unless something was wrong.

Ruby made a complete, gentle circle as she listened to Crocea One land successfully. Just like that, the emergency was over, and normal flight operations resumed. She wondered who Crocea One was. 

Ruby taxied _Crescent Rose_ into its hardstand and shut down the engine. She opened the canopy as the ladder was set into place, and an enlisted man clambered up to help her unstrap. She climbed down, put her red helmet carefully into its bag, turned around, and was nearly tackled to the ground.

“I can’t believe my baby sister is attending Vytal Flag with me!” Yang Xiao Long yelled, causing heads to turn. She squeezed. “This is the best day _ever!”_

“Gak,” Ruby gasped. Her G-suit could protect her from nine times the force of gravity, but was no protection against an older sister. 

Yang let go and stepped back. She was still wearing her helmet. Ruby got a full breath of air and looked at her. Yang took off the bright yellow helmet and cradled it in the crook of her arm, releasing a shock of sweat-plastered blonde hair. The tailored flight suit hugged her curves rather nicely; Ruby had always been envious of her older sister’s figure. Certainly the ground crew spared her more than a few approving and appraising glances. Yang’s grin was wide. “I heard on the way in. I’m so proud of you, sis.”

“It was nothing.”

“Like hell.” She turned to the enlisted crew chief. “Sarge! When you get a chance, I want to see some kill marks on the intake there! My baby sis splashed four damn air pirates today, and I want the world to know! That’s an order, Sarge!”

The crew chief took it in the spirit it was intended. “You got it, Captain!”

Yang mussed Ruby’s russet hair. It was already sticking up at odd angles, but after Yang was done, it looked as if Ruby had been electrocuted. “I was wondering why you were flying around with empty pylons.” She patted _Crescent Rose_ ’s nose affectionately. “Everyone’s going to think you’re the bee’s knees.”

On the short flight from O’Hare to Beacon, Ruby had sobered up from Ozpin’s offer. She was going to be the youngest at Beacon, and as Ozpin had said, the only one with live kills as opposed to drones. That was going to get her a lot of respect…but it was also going to get her a lot of envy. Second Lieutenants with barely two years of flight time under their flight suit were not sent to Vytal Flag. There would be questions that she was not going to enjoy answering. 

And as Ruby looked down the flightline, there were going to be a _lot_ of people.

“I don’t want to be the bee’s knees,” she told her sister in a low voice. “I just want to be a normal girl, with normal knees. I don’t want people to think I’m special.”

“You _are_ special,” Yang replied, then gave her sister a less rib-crushing hug. “You’re my sister.”

Ruby signed the form returning _Crescent Rose_ to the United States Air Force—so that if anything broke on the aircraft now, it wasn’t her fault, as her uncle liked to say—and followed her sister down the flightline. They came to Yang’s F-15 first. Ruby dropped her helmet bag in shock.

She had seen _Ember Celica_ before, but this was not the same Eagle she’d seen when Yang had visited Signal. It still sported the same dark gray camouflage, the same yellow nose and flaming heart symbol on both tails, but now the tails were angled outwards, and the intakes bulged far more than the normal F-15. “It’s a…it’s a…Silent Eagle…” Ruby breathed.

“Yup!” Yang confirmed happily. “I got the first one. Seems I made an impression at Red Flag last year.” She slapped _Celica’s_ nose. “This big bastard is now a flying missile battery. I can carry twelve AMRAAMs on this bad boy. Double ace in one pass, baby! _Celica_ will _eat_ a F-22, I don’t care what anyone says.” She began a lengthy introduction to the Silent Eagle’s other capabilities, but then noticed that Ruby was no longer listening. She was looking up and down the ramp. “Ruby,” Yang called. “Ruuuuuby. Earth to Ruby, are you receiving me?”

“Airplanes…so…many airplanes.” Ruby pointed shakily. “Whoa, that’s a J-10...there’s that Mirage from earlier…I wonder where the Typhoon went…oh my _GOD!”_ she shouted. One of the mechanics underneath _Celica_ straightened up at her shout and cracked his head on the fuselage. Ruby’s gasps of awe were drowned out by a spate of sulphurous cursing. Ruby grabbed Yang’s arm and dragged her over. “Yang…Yang, is that a Tomcat?”

“Looks that way.”

“Thought the Navy was getting rid of them. It’s weird looking. Something different about it. And it’s all black, which means it’s experimental…wonder if it’s from VX-4…”

Yang could see that Ruby was lost in aviation nirvana, so she gently pulled away from her sister. Down the flightline, someone waved, and Yang waved back. “Ruby, I’m going to leave you here to drool in peace. Go make some friends, huh? I’ll see you at the welcome brief.”

“Yeah…friends…sure.” Ruby blinked, coming out of her trance. “Wait, Yang!” But her sister was gone, already running down the line. “But I don’t need friends if I have you,” Ruby said softly. She had never really made a lot of friends at Signal. Sure, there were people that she liked, but no one that she hung out with off-duty. 

Ruby supposed she should be getting along as well. She did need to check in, find her billet on whatever dorm they were going to be staying at…would they even _have_ dorms? Ruby picked up her helmet bag, and with one last look back at _Ember Celica,_ began to walk towards the hangars.

Or would have, if she had not stumbled over a pile of luggage. She screamed a bad word and fell backwards, going end over end over assorted bags and cases. Ruby ended up with her boots in the air.

“ _Was im_ _fich?_ ” someone hissed, then there was a woman standing over Ruby. “ _Was machen sie?”_

“I’m…I’m sorry,” Ruby apologized, trying to find her feet. She used a case to at least sit up. 

“Sorry?” the other woman shrilled in accented English. “You’re sorry. Do you know what kind of damage you could have caused?” She began piling the luggage back into place. “ _Schlimm genug, dass ich diese in Gepäckkapseln stopfen musste...”_

“Er…nichten sprechen Deutschen,” Ruby said. She picked up the case and handed it to the other woman. Ruby noticed that she was wearing a grayish flight suit, but that was the least striking thing about her. Her hair, done up in a bun, was completely white, but she was not old in the least; probably only a few years older than Ruby herself. Pale blue eyes stared back at her, bright against skin so pale it verged on the translucent; the scar that cut across the left eye was all the more stark because of it. “I’m really sorry, ma’am.” The German girl wore rank on her shoulders, but Ruby had no idea what it was; it was for certain that she outranked Ruby, though. 

The woman snatched the case out of her hand. “Give me that.” She snapped open the case to make sure nothing was damaged. Curious, Ruby came around to look into the case. It was filled with tiny cylinders. “What’s that?” she asked.

The German girl’s look could freeze a sun. “That is DUST.”

“DUST?”

“Oh, for… _mein Gott._ DUST. Defense Utility System Technology. Advanced targeting systems. Defensive electronic countermeasures. These cylinders hold microchips. Ringing bells, _Second_ Leutnant?” 

“Oh…right.” Naturally Ruby had heard of DUST. It was being installed in all the new aircraft, and was revolutionizing air combat. Her poor little _Crescent Rose_ was at the bottom of the procurement list, if it was going to even be considered—the older F-16s might not be upgraded at all. She glanced back at _Ember Celica;_ it probably already had DUST. 

The other woman slammed the case shut nearly on Ruby’s nose, and real dust flew into the air. Without warning, Ruby sneezed with such violence that it was the German who stumbled backwards, and tripped over her own luggage. The case went flying. Ruby tried to make a diving grab for it, but instead ended up on top of the German girl. Both of them screamed “NO!” in two different languages.

Luckily, the case didn’t hit the ground with catastrophic results. It was caught in midair by a raven-haired pilot, who landed easily on her feet. As the German and Ruby untangled themselves and got to their feet, she handed the case to the German. “ _Thank_ you,” the latter said. She dusted herself off and spared a withering expression for Ruby. “Idiot. Now my flight suit is dirty.”

Ruby had enough. Rank or no rank, there were only so many insults she could handle in one day. She would bet real money this Kraut bitch had never shot down anything but boyfriends. “I said I was sorry, _princess.”_

“Heiress, actually,” the black-haired pilot said. She turned to the German. “Oberleutnant Weiss Schnee, am I right? Heiress to Schnee GmbH, the manufacturer of DUST?”

Weiss smiled. “I am. It is nice to be recognized.”

“And the same Schnee GmbH that got heavily fined last year by the European Union for questionable labor practices and censured for some rather controversial ties to certain organized crime families?” the pilot added.

Weiss’ face went bright red. “How dare...that’s a lie…we wouldn’t…” She switched to a spate of confused German, then stomped off with her case, shouting at the ground personnel to bring her luggage posthaste. 

Ruby watched her go, then looked at the black-haired pilot, only to find her walking away as well. Weirdly, there was a bow in her hair, which was distinctly nonregulation, even if it did blend in with her hair. “Hey, um, what’s your name anyway?”

The pilot paused and looked over her shoulder. “Blake Belladonna. Lieutenant, US Marine Corps. _First_ Lieutenant.” Then she kept walking, in the general direction of the black F-14.

“Ruby Rose! I’m Air Force!”

“Yeah, that was obvious,” Belladonna called back. Ruby wasn’t sure if she was being insulted or not.

Dejectedly, Ruby retrieved her helmet bag and spared a once-over for the Typhoon. Pale gray, German flag on the tail above a stylized snowflake, all Teutonic angles, as if the aircraft was going to swallow one whole for daring to come close to it. It was immaculate. The only nod to individuality was the name _Myrtenaster_ on the nose below the cockpit. Ruby resisted the urge to savagely kick the nose gear tire. “Stupid Typhoon,” she muttered as she walked off, resuming her journey to the hangar. “Ugly piece of European crap. What the hell is a Myrtenaster anyway? Looks like someone kicked it in the nose and stomped its tail. Bet my Viper could beat it, DUST or no stupid DUST!”

Aside from the Blake Belladonna woman, who had disappeared, the flightline was nearly empty. Most of the pilots were streaming towards the hangars. There was one pilot just ahead of her, who looked just as downcast as she felt. She caught up to him mainly by accident rather than design. They glanced at each other. He was a good foot taller than her, with close-cropped blonde hair and a not-unattractive face. “Hi,” she said tiredly.

“Hello.” His English was accented, but differently from Weiss Schnee. _Thank God,_ Ruby thought, _I think I’ve had enough of Germany today._ “Jaune Arc.” He stuck out a hand. “Lieutenant. Armee de l’Air.”

“Ruby Rose. Second Lieutenant, US Air Force.” They shook hands. “So, French?”

Jaune chuckled. “Yes.” He thumbed towards the Mirage 2000 parked in a hardstand across the taxiway. “That one’s mine. _Crocea Mors.”_

“You were the one that declared an emergency. Everything okay?”

“Oh, that.” Jaune blushed and scratched behind his head. “False alarm.” 

“Well, better safe than sorry. Sweet machine.” She liked the Mirage’s lines. It was graceful—not quite as streamlined as her F-16, but much more attractive than the damn Typhoon. _Hope I get to fly against Little Miss Princess,_ Ruby thought darkly. _I’m gonna wax her ass so damn hard._

“Thank you. What do you fly?” Jaune’s words dispelled the bad mood. Like most fighter pilots, Ruby liked to talk about her airplane. 

“Viper driver.” Then Ruby realized that Jaune might not be familiar with the F-16’s informal nickname. The USAF had officially named it Fighting Falcon, a name the fighter pilot community loathed. F-16 pilots dubbed their machine the Viper, which sounded menacing and sexy. “That’s a—“

“—F-16. Yes, I know. We’ve trained against them in Europe.” Jaune smiled, to show no offense. “Not to change the subject, but do you know where we’re going?”

Ruby hesitated, then decided to tell the truth. “Actually, I was hoping you knew. I’ve never been here before.” She shrugged. “Maybe there’s a directory somewhere?”


	4. Friendship to Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruby and Jaune finally find the other pilots, and Vytal Flag officially opens. It's a night of momentous meetings, and the beginnings of legendary friendships.

_Hangar One, Joint Base Beacon_

_Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_11 April 2001_

After finding the food court (which was well-stocked), the base exchange (ditto), and the control tower (where the controllers told the pilots where to go, as usual), Jaune Arc and Ruby Rose finally found where they were supposed to check in—Hangar One, the largest on the base. Both of them mentally kicked themselves for not starting here first. Then again, Beacon was huge, easily the largest base either had been to. 

The hangar was darkened, but Ruby saw Yang in the third row. Her sister spotted her around the same time, and waved. “Nice meeting you, Jaune!” Ruby said, shaking his hand. “See you around! Bon voyage!”

Jaune didn’t have time to say much more than mutter a “Nice meeting you” before Ruby was gone. This was not shaping up to be the best of days. He went to find a seat. There were almost none; Ruby and Jaune were among the last pilots to arrive.

“Lieutenant? Are you looking for a seat?” The voice was high, slightly nasal, but in flawless French. Who it belonged to was equally flawless: tall, red-haired, and wearing the duty uniform of the Hellenic Air Force. 

“Uh, yes. Yes, I am,” Jaune answered, trying and somehow succeeding in not stepping on his words. He walked to the proferred seat. “Thank you, ah…Sminagos?” He motioned to the rank on her sleeves.

The girl laughed softly. “Episminagos. It’s a bit of a mouthful. You can call me Pyrrha, Lieutenant. Pyrrha Nikos.”

“Saved you a seat,” Yang told her sister. “Where the hell were you?” 

Ruby decided on the truth; Yang tended to know when her little sister was lying. “We got lost.”

“’We’? Oh, you mean the tall, blond and kind of scraggly guy?” Yang elbowed Ruby. “Man, you work fast.”

“Stop it!” Ruby whined. “Today’s turning to crap in a hurry. First you left me there—“

“—to drool all over airplanes—“

Ruby ignored that. “—and then I busted my butt when I tripped over some uppity bitch’s luggage. Luggage! Who brings a cart full of luggage to an exercise! I brought my overnight bag! Anyway, this prim and proper Kraut starts giving me a ration of shit and she gets a little dust on her uniform and freaks the hell out and she flies a damn Typhoon, the ugliest piece of crap to come out of Europe since the Lightning and…” Ruby stopped and closed her eyes. “Oh, God. She’s standing right behind me, isn’t she?” Yang was biting her lip not to explode in laughter and could only nod.

Ruby blew out her breath and turned slowly to confront a glowering Weiss Schnee. She slammed a pamphlet into Ruby’s chest as if she wanted to shove it through the younger girl. “Here.” Ruby took the pamphlet. It read _DUST For Dummies and Other Inadequate Individuals: How to Use Defensive Utility System Technology and Not Die._ “Luckily for you, I had some printed in English before I left Germany. Now, then. Would you like to do me a favor?”

“Yes. Look, Oberstleutnant—“

“ _Ober_ leutnant.” Weiss held up a finger. “My favor is simple and twofold. First, read this pamphlet.”

“Er, okay.”

“The second is to never speak to me again.” Weiss whirled and stalked off.

Yang shook her head and snickered. “See? Told you you’d make friends.” 

“Go to hell.” Ruby sat down, hard. Luckily, the chairs were US military issue metal, designed to take angry fighter pilot rear ends. Though it was something of a moot point, since Ruby’s flight suit-clad derriere had barely touched the chair before an authoriative female voice shouted “Attention on deck! Commanding officer present!”

Thirty pilots shot to their feet and stood at attention. Captain Ozpin and Lieutenant Colonel Goodwitch walked onto the small dais at one end of the hangar; Ozpin, Ruby noticed, was still wearing his dress blue uniform, while Goodwitch had changed into the USAF dress blues. Flanking the dais were two aircraft, and Ruby wanted to kick herself for not noticing it before—or Weiss Schnee, for distracting her. The F-22 she recognized as Goodwitch’s. The red-trimmed Albatros D.II biplane was another matter. 

“At ease, ladies and gentlemen,” Ozpin instructed. His voice rang loud and clear through the hangar; he did not use a microphone. The pilots stood feet apart, hands behind their backs. “Welcome to Joint Base Beacon. For those of you who do not know me, I am Captain Ozpin. This is Lieutenant Colonel Goodwitch. We have the honor of commanding the program here: Vytal Flag.

“Vytal Flag was founded in 1963, over thirty-five years ago, after the Third World War nearly destroyed this country and the world. During that brief yet devastating war, the realization dawned on the surviving military of the West that our pilots had lost their dogfighting skills. Vytal Flag was founded to teach those skills again—not only to stand ready to defend our respective nations from foreign threats, but also those from the Dead Zones. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, you represent the top one percent of all fighter pilots in the world. The elite. The best of the best. You have traveled here today in search of knowledge, to hone your craft and your skill. But you will learn that knowledge will only carry you so far. It is up to you to take that first step, to become better. 

“You will fly at least three combat missions a week, possibly more, and attend classes in between, plus evaluations of your performance. Each sequence you will meet a different challenge. Each mission will become more difficult. And you will be tested under live conditions. You will fly your aircraft to the edge of the envelope—faster, harder than you have ever flown before, and more dangerous. You will be fighting each other in simulated combat, and other…targets…in _real_ combat.” Ozpin smiled and pushed up his glasses. “Just remember that we are all, ultimately, on the same team.” 

Then the smile was gone. “Ladies and gentlemen, this school is about combat. There are no points. There is no trophy. You are playing the ultimate game, where the losers die and the winners only get the chance to play again. But if you survive, you will be able to fight anything in the world, and win.”

Ozpin stepped back from the podium, to be replaced by Goodwitch. “Men and women are to be separated by gender and will sleep in the barracks tonight, regardless of rank. Get to know each other. Lights out at 2100 hours. Reveille is at 0500, breakfast to follow. Room and flight assignments will come after the formal welcome ceremony tomorrow at 0700. The uniform of the day will be flight suits. Be prepared to fly.” She paused. “Dismissed. Please follow the sergeants at the door to your barracks assignments.” 

  
  
_Building 8113 (Female Enlisted Barracks), Joint Base Beacon_

_Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_11 April 2001_

Thirteen sleeping bags and air mattresses were spread out on the linoleum floor of the barracks bay. Normally, there would have been several rows of bunks, but to the pilots’ chagrin, those had been cleared out. Moreover, they were not assigned officers’ quarters, but were placed in an enlisted barracks. When one of them had asked Goodwitch why, the colonel had simply said to deal with it and shut the door. Clearly, Vytal Flag was starting off with a lesson about roughing it. 

Still, Yang Xiao Long thought, it could be worse. The room was warm at least, and it felt like a big slumber party. Most of the pilots seemed to be getting along well enough, though she noted with wry amusement that Weiss Schnee had shifted her sleeping bag away from the others. 

And tomorrow they would get to fly. 

Since she had known she was coming to Beacon for quite awhile, Yang had packed a week’s worth of clothes in a luggage pod carried under the fuselage of her F-15. Ruby, of course, had not known she was coming to Beacon, so she had stuffed only the basics in an overnight bag. Luckily, that included a pair of pajamas. Yang slid over to her sister. “Having fun?”

“I guess.” Ruby shifted uncomfortably on the military-issue air mattress, which she was sure had a leak somewhere in it. She looked around the barracks bay. “Wish I knew more people here. They might not pair us up tomorrow, you know.” 

Yang shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not.” Usually, in exercises, flight assignments were determined by nationality, for the simple reason that nations tended to build aircraft and train pilots according to their own doctrine. There were other Americans at Beacon besides Yang and Ruby, however. “But you might get her.” She pointed at a girl with outlandish orange hair. “That’s Nora Valkyrie. She flies a Hog.”

Ruby sat up. “She pilots an A-10? What’s she doing here?” She said it with the typical fighter pilot disbelief when speaking of close air support attack pilots. While all fighter pilots had great respect for the A-10 Thunderbolt II—which absolutely no one called the aircraft; it was the Warthog or Hog—it was no fighter, and fighter pilots believed that anyone who toted bombs for a living probably had mental issues. An F-15 like _Ember Celica_ would rarely be down in the weeds with an A-10, where everything up to and including a slingshot could hit them. Of course, Yang mused, maybe they would be doing low-level work. Enemies didn’t always like to play around 20,000 feet like civilized people. Sometime they liked to stay low too. Down low, the A-10 owned a lot of advantages: it could actually turn inside most fighters, and any fighter with an A-10 behind it needed to remember the latter’s gun armament: a 30mm gatling cannon that could saw a tank in half. Yang shuddered to think what that thing could do to her beautiful F-15.

“Who knows? This place is weird…or haven’t you noticed? That Ozpin character is something else. He tells us we’re the best, then says we’ll probably die. Getting mixed signals here.” Yang grinned. “Though he let my baby sister in here below the zone, so he can’t be all bad.”

“Bleah.” Ruby sank back onto her mattress.

“Having second thoughts?” Yang poked her playfully. 

“Not about the training. It’s just kind of hitting me that you’re the only one here that I know.”

“What about that Jaune guy? He seemed nice enough. There you go! Plus one friend.”

Ruby rolled over onto her stomach. “Pretty sure Weiss counts as a negative friend,” she murmured into her pillow. Ruby did not like feeling a fool, and Weiss Schnee was very good at making her feel that way.

“No such thing as negative friends. You made one friend and one enemy.” Yang ignored Ruby’s middle finger. “I know I’m number one, Ruby. Look around you! There’s probably all kinds of friends.” 

The lights dimmed and then switched off. It was 2100 hours. “Then I’ll meet them tomorrow,” Ruby said, still into her pillow. It had been a long day, and she could feel fatigue tugging at her. 

Though the bay was now dark and conversation died to a murmur, one corner of it was suddenly lit up. Yang looked over. One of the other pilots had set down her phone as a dim light and opened a book. “So much for lights out.”

Ruby lifted her head. “Oh. That girl.”

“You know her?”

“Not really. She was there when the Kraut Princess and I had our little scene. Her name’s Blake something. She’s a Marine.”

Yang regarded the other woman. “Can’t be. Marines can’t read.” Feeling mischievous—which for Yang meant that it was a day ending in y—she grabbed her sister’s hand, hauled Ruby to her feet with a yelp, and dragged her across the bay. Yang practically flung Ruby at Blake’s feet. “Hi!” Yang said. “I believe you two know each other.”

Blake barely looked up from the book. Ruby noticed that the girl’s eyes were yellow, which did nothing for her mood. Yellow eyes were definitely not normal, but neither were Marines. “Yes. She’s Second Lieutenant Ruby Rose, United States Air Force.” Her attention turned to Yang. “And I believe you’re Yang Xiao Long, also Air Force. I’ve heard of you. You were the lead pilot on the Silent Eagle program.” The voice was clipped, quiet, and vaguely irritated.

The silence stretched out uncomfortably. Ruby looked to Yang helplessly. Yang cleared her throat. “So, ah, what’s your name?”

“Blake Belladonna.” When Yang continued to stare at her, Blake added, “First Lieutenant, United States Marine Corps, assigned US Navy test squadron VX-4 at NAS Patuxent River, Maryland.” She returned to her book. “I think that should about cover it.”

Yang was not so easily dissuaded. “I like your bow.” It was nonregulation, even for off-duty, but Yang regarded regulations as general suggestions. Her own hair was out of regulation.

Blake looked at both of them over the rim of the book with glacial coolness. “Thank you. It is lovely. Almost as lovely as this book.” Neither Yang nor Ruby caught the inference. “That I will continue to read.” Still no hint. “As soon as you leave.”

Yang finally got the idea. “Oh well. We tried.” She began to walk back to her bed. 

“What’s your book about?” Ruby asked. In the dim light, she could barely make out the title. There was no cover on the book. 

“ _The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,”_ Blake answered. “I’m sure that the Air Force has heard of it.”

“I love books,” Ruby said, letting the interservice rivaly slide past. “Yang here used to read to me every night when we were kids. The good stories. Heroes killing monsters, that sort of thing. They’re one of the reasons why I became a fighter pilot.”

Blake chuckled. “Hoping you’ll live happily ever after?”

“Hopefully we all will. But that’s what we’re here for, right? Protecting those that can’t protect themselves? Fighting for what’s right?”

Blake didn’t meet Ruby’s eyes. “This is real world, Lieutenant Rose. Not a fairy tale.” She smiled, almost in spite of herself, and then did look at Ruby, and seemed to come to some sort of decision. “Still, I admire idealism when I see it. Nice to meet you.”

“Thanks!” Ruby chirped. 

“And if you’re done with the Group Encounter,” came the snarling voice of Weiss Schnee from across the room, “some of us would like to sleep!” There were scattered giggles at that.

“She’s right,” Ruby admitted, though it hurt to do so. “We really should get some sleep.” They exchanged nods, and Yang and Ruby turned to go back to their beds. 

“Captain Long?” Blake called out.

“Yeah?”

“Some Marines can read.” Blake grinned at Yang over the top of her book. Yang grinned back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the reviews so far! Those really keep us writers going.
> 
> Though I explain it later, Pyrrha Nikos' rank (Episminagos) translates to Major, as in this world she actually is Greek. Similarly, since Weiss Schnee is actually German in this story, her rank (Oberleutnant) translates to 1st Lieutenant-though it is very close to Oberstleutnant, which is Lieutenant Colonel. Her name would also be pronounced Veiss.
> 
> Ruby refers to the English Electric Lightning. It's not a pretty airplane, though beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
> 
> Finally, for you history buffs, the clue that Vytal Flag began in 1963 should be a big clue as to why this Remnant is our world. A certain thing happened in October of 1962...


	5. Brothers (and Sisters) in Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Hop One. The pilots of Vytal Flag find themselves separated into temporary squadrons for their first mission--and it's not a training one. The squadrons will be sent out over the Minnesota Dead Zone with live munitions, to deal with the threat of GRIMM. Captain Ozpin is throwing his pilots into the deep end, and this is not a simulation, but the real thing.
> 
> Why is GRIMM capitalized? There's a good reason for that.

_Officers’ Mess, Joint Base Beacon_

_Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_12 April 2001_

_Shangwei—_ Captain—Lie Ren, of the Chinese Unified Air Force, looked across his cup of coffee at Nora Valkyrie. “Would you mind repeating what you just said?”

Nora swallowed so much of the pancake she was eating that Ren worried she might choke. Somehow she got it down. “I said, I hope we end up on the same team together!” She punctuated her sentence with a stentorian belch that rattled the silverware. 

Ren took a sip of coffee. “I am not against the idea, but I don’t see it happening. We fly very dissimilar aircraft—your A-10 and my J-10.” 

“They have the same number.”

“I don’t think that counts.”

“But we make a good team!” Nora insisted, after slamming down half a glass of orange juice. “We proved that last year when my squadron visited China! You know—‘you take the high road, I’ll take the low road…’” She sang the last part, badly. 

Ren shook his head, but smiled. It was true that they had ended up developing interesting tactics at Cope Thunder, the annual training exercise held in Asia. “Enemy” aircraft that dived away from Ren’s J-10 had to keep one eye on Nora’s lurking A-10 at low level, and a distracted enemy was a vulnerable one. When Nora’s flight was assigned to hunt down helicopters, Ren’s J-10 was used to vector them to their targets, as the A-10 lacked a radar, whereas the J-10 had a superb look-down suite. The two aircraft couldn’t be more different, but then again, neither could their pilots. Ren tended to be quiet, whereas Nora was very boisterous. They were still just friends, though Ren knew Nora’s interest went beyond friendship. He was not wholly against that idea, but that was for a later date, Ren mused. 

That didn’t stop Nora, however. “We should come up with some sort of plan, Ren! We need to make sure we end up in the same flight together.” She rubbed her hands together. “We could bribe Captain Ozpin.”

“I’m fairly certain that’s a court-martial offense,” Ren replied in amusement. _Surely she’s not serious,_ he thought. _I hope._

“Only if we get caught.”

Two tables away, Weiss Schnee and Pyrrha Nikos sat across from her. Weiss, Pyrrha noted, might be an heiress and an officer of the Luftwaffe, but she was through her third sausage and ate as if she might never eat again. Pyrrha reconsidered. It was entirely possible that this could be their last breakfast. 

Once Weiss had killed the third sausage with a vengeance, she wiped her mouth and drank some coffee. “So, Pyrrha…” Weiss had discovered Pyrrha’s fondness for first names quickly, along with the fact that the Greek pilot spoke fluent German. “Have you given any thought to flight assignments?”

“I’m not quite sure,” Pyrrha answered. “My understanding is that Captain Ozpin or Colonel Goodwitch will be making that decision.”

“Perhaps.” Weiss sipped at her coffee. “Or they may be leaving it up to us. In that case, I think we would make a good team. My Typhoon, your F-16…”

Pyrrha considered it. “That does sound rather grand.”

Weiss smiled broadly. “Wonderful! This will be perfect.” Her moment of triumph was promptly ruined, however, as a tow-headed pilot in a beige flight suit sat down at their table. “Who the hell are you?” she muttered, half under her breath.

“Oh, hello, Jaune.” Pyrrha greeted him happily, switching to French. She blushed, and tried to hide it behind her own coffee mug. “Have you met Oberleutnant Schnee?”

“Ah, not as of yet.” Actually, Jaune had been admiring the German girl from across the mess hall for the better part of ten minutes. Though Pyrrha was certainly no slouch in the looks department, Weiss was like a dream. She had let down her hair partially from its bun this morning, and it framed an angelic face. At that moment, Jaune decided that Weiss Schnee had to be his. He decided to turn on the charm, or what he hoped passed for it. “Oberleutnant Schnee, I am Lieutenant Jaune Arc, Armee de l’Air.” He took her hand and kissed it. It tasted faintly of strawberry body wash and sausage grease. 

Weiss snapped her hand back as if Jaune was a snake. “Gah! Don’t touch me, Lieutenant.” 

“My apologies!” Jaune kept speaking in French, correctly assuming that Weiss spoke it. It was a far gentler, romantic language than German. “So, I’ve been hearing rumors about flight assignments. I think we would make a good one. May I call you Weiss, ma’am?”

Weiss was about to inform Jaune exactly what he could call her, but Pyrrha stepped in. “The flights are actually made up of four, you know.“

Jaune turned the charm meter up to eleven. “I certainly wouldn’t mind if you joined us, Pyrrha.” Pyrrha blushed again. 

“Do you know who she is?” Weiss exclaimed. This was not at all going to plan. “You are in _no_ position to be in our flight.” 

“I know exactly who she is…” Jaune turned back to her “…snow angel.” He smiled winningly. “I think Episminagos Nikos is onboard for Jaune Flight. Spots are filling up fast.” Jaune hoped that Weiss would blush in the same comely matter that Pyrrha had. Weiss’ face did turn red, but not from blushing. Jaune, in an epic misjudgement of signals, leaned in closer. 

Pyrrha decided this had gone far enough; if Jaune got any closer, either Weiss would charge him with sexual harrassment or she’d simply demolish the overeager Frenchman. To save Jaune from himself, Pyrrha picked up a knife, carefully gauged the distance, and rammed it into the plastic table between Jaune’s fingers, millimeters from cutting skin. It took a moment for him to notice, but when he did, he let out an oath and instantly backed away. Weiss took advantage of the distraction to snatch up her lunch tray and beat a hasty retreat. “Sorry!” Pyrrha said to Jaune as Weiss dragged her off. 

Yang and Ruby walked by, carrying their empty trays. “Having some trouble there, killer?” She pried the knife out of the table and threw it on her tray. 

“Father always said that women look for confidence.” Jaune slumped. “Where did I go wrong?”

“Smothering the Oberleutnant wasn’t the best move,” Yang replied. “And if I got the French right, you called her ‘snow angel’? Smooth.” The sarcasm was piled high and deep. 

“C’mon, Casanova,” Ruby said, helping Jaune to his feet. “Let’s go fly.”

Vytal Flag Threat and Exercise Briefing Room A, despite its lengthy title, was just an auditorium, with stadium seating—upholstered seats more comfortable than steel chairs, with a nice cup holder for the fighter pilot’s essential monogrammed coffee mug, or beer bottle if the occasion called for it. It was crowded with the same pilots from the hangar the day before, though this time Jaune ended up sitting with Ruby and Yang. Once more, they stood at attention as Ozpin and Goodwitch took the dais. Neither wore their dress uniforms today; both were in working uniforms, though neither in flight suits.

“Good morning,” Ozpin addressed them after telling them to sit. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Hop One. You will be flying out to the Vale Air Defense Sector today, northwest of Beacon…over the Minnesota Dead Zone.” He let the murmurs go on for a moment. “Your first mission here will not be a simulated one against friendly drones, computer-generated images, or each other. For those missions, we use the exercise area over Lake Superior. No, ladies and gentlemen, the Vale is real world.” 

The lights dimmed. Projected onto a large screen was a map of the area. To the south of them was a blue-bordered area marked RESTRICTED; that was the approach patterns for Chicago-O’Hare Airport, where obviously no one wanted fighters mixing it up between airliner flights. A similar box was over the city of Milwaukee to the southeast. Green bordered boxes showed the Lake Superior exercise area, which stretched over most of northern Wisconsin, the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and the lake itself. It was beyond the Mississippi River that the pilots’ eyes went to. It was marked in a blood red border that paralleled the river itself. Officially, there was a Notice to Airmen text box warning that flights were restricted to above 30,000 feet. Above the NOTAMS box was a hand-scrawled message: HERE BE MONSTERS. 

Ozpin faced his audience. “You are all familiar with the GRIMM. Some of you here have fought them. Many of you know others who have.” His eyes fell on Ruby for a moment. “And you probably know someone who was killed by them.” He looked behind her. Ruby stole a glance out of the corner of an eye: Ozpin was looking at Lie Ren. His hands had clenched. Nora gently put one of her hands on his. 

“Ground-launched Remote Independent Multimission Munition,” Ozpin read. “GRIMM. I don’t recall who came up with that acronym, but it fits. For those of you not aware of their history, they appeared shortly after the Third World War. Millions may have died in the nuclear exchange between the United States and the Soviet Union in October 1962, but millions more were killed by the GRIMM. Cities can be rebuilt, and would have been had it not been for these things. 

“As you know, it is because of them, not just the radiation, that the West Coast and Northeast Corridor of the United States, Central Asia, Eastern Europe, and the entirety of what used to be European Russia are no longer habitable. We thought for years that they were organic—some sort of mutation caused by radiation. But we know now that they are mechanical. What controls them, if anything, is unknown. They appear at random and, despite their name, truly only have one mission: to kill.” Ozpin smiled, though there was no humor in it. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is your mission today in Hop One: to kill _them._ A few dozen have been detected congregating near the ruins of the Twin Cities.”

The ice in Ruby’s stomach that had coalesced at the mention of GRIMM dissolved, to be replaced by excitement. _This will be the day!_ she thought. _No more small talk or get-to-know-yous. I’ll let_ Crescent Rose _do all the talking._

A hand went up from the back. Ozpin nodded to whoever it was; Ruby could not see them in the shadows. “Sir, what kind of GRIMM have been spotted?”

“The contact report was from a recon team near Shakopee. They reported Beowolves and possibly a Nevermore before they were forced to retreat.”

Pyrrha raised her hand. “Captain, sir? Is there a risk to the team if we’re operating in the area?”

Ozpin paused, and it was Goodwitch who answered. “The team is no longer an issue, Major Nikos.” Pyrrha’s hand went slowly back down as Goodwitch’s tone and words sank in: there was no recon team left to worry about.

Ozpin continued into the silence. “Some of you—many of you have been wondering about the assignment of flights. Allow us to put an end to the confusion. You will be assigned to flights very soon, but you will be assigned wingmen today.” Despite the fact that nearly half of the world’s fighter pilots were female, the male term was still used out of habit. “Your assignments have already been made; you’ll find out when you reach your hardstands. Your aircraft were moved during the night to the dispersal area; they are being loaded with weapons as we speak. Rest assured,” Ozpin said, “that the wingman assignments were made with the utmost of care by Colonel Goodwitch and myself.” He smiled, this time with notable amusement. “You will be paired with this wingman for the next six months, so I suggest you get to know them well.” That brought more than a few comments and groans. 

He nodded to Goodwitch, who took the podium. “The class will be divided roughly in thirds, to avoid fratricide over the operations area. Anything the first squadron leaves alive, the second squadron will clean up. The third will remain in reserve. I know this will disappoint those of you in the second and third squadrons, but rest assured—you will have more than enough opportunities to kill GRIMM here at Beacon.” The map switched to a list.

_FIRST SQUADRON_

_Arc, Jaune (1 st Lieutenant, AdA)—Mirage 2000C_

_Belladonna, Blake (1 st Lieutenant, USMC)—F-14GS Tomcat _

_Long, Yang Xiao (Captain, USAF)—F-15SE Silent Eagle_

_Nikos, Pyrrha (Major, HAF)—F-16C Viper_

_Ren, Lie (Captain, CUAF)—J-10 Vigorous Dragon_

_Rose, Ruby (2 nd Lieutenant, USAF)—F-16A(ADF) Viper_

_Schnee, Weiss (1 st Lieutenant, Luftwaffe)—Typhoon _

_Valkyrie, Nora (1 st Lieutenant, USAF)—A-10A Warthog_

Ruby ignored the next slide, which showed the second squadron. She felt like cheering—she and her sister were in the same squadron! True, it was a one in eight chance they would be paired up, but that was better than a one in thirty. In any case, Nora was doing all the cheering necessary.

Once Goodwitch was done introducing the squadrons, she switched slides back to the map. “Mission parameters are as follows: each squadron will take off in sequence, with 1st Squadron taking off at 0830. 2nd Squadron will take off fifteen minutes later, and 3rd Squadron fifteen minutes after that. 1st Squadron will move immediately into the mission area, in pairs. To ensure the fewest amount of GRIMM escape, each pair will have at least ten miles separation as you make your sweep. Once you have reached the chop line—“ she pointed at a line roughly centered on what had been St. Cloud—“you will return to Beacon. Under no circumstances will you proceed beyond this line, which represents bingo fuel. There is nothing beyond it. 

“While we will have tanker support for refueling, the tankers will be for emergencies only. Divert fields are at La Crosse and Clear Lake. If you have to bail out, get as close as you can to the Mississippi River barrier zone. Anything beyond that, and you are beyond help. You will have to evade east to a safe pickup area.” No one wanted to contemplate that: GRIMM could swat down high-performance fighters; individuals armed with pistols would represent little more than a slow target. Even the Army did not take on GRIMM without tank support. “Section lead assignments are up to you, once in the air. However, I must emphasize that the strongest and best leader may not necessarily be the one of highest rank. Some of you have more combat time than the others. Keep that in mind,” said Goodwitch. “Even I will defer to a more experienced flight leader, even if I outrank them.”

Goodwitch then went over radio frequencies, navigation presets, and other assorted information designed to keep live fighter pilots from becoming dead ones. Ruby wrote down the information on two notepads, then put both pads into clear pockets on the thighs of her flight suit; all she would need to do was glance down.   
Ozpin took the stand one last time. “Ladies and gentlemen, for years, you have trained to become fighter pilots—warriors. Today, you will be evaluated as such. The clock is ticking, and, as of now, we are keeping score. Good luck.”

“And may the Force be with you,” Yang whispered. Ruby smothered a laugh, but heard someone else let out a brief snicker. To her surprise, it was Blake Belladonna. 

“All rise!” Goodwitch called out, and the pilots rose to their feet as Ozpin departed the dais. “Pilots!” For the first time, Ruby saw Glynda Goodwitch smile. “Man your planes.” 


	6. Danger Zone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruby, Weiss, Blake and Yang take to the air on their first operational mission against the dreaded GRIMM...and Weiss is less than thrilled that her wingmate is Ruby. But when they confront six Beowolves over the Minnesota Dead Zone, they will need to learn to work together or this story will be over before it starts.
> 
> Or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will "On RWBY Wings" follow RWBY canon? Yes and no. It will stay generally on the same track, but there will be noticeable differences to the story, and not just because it's in a "realistic" AU. So while there won't be any magic, the Maidens and Salem exist in this world. How? Read on, dear reader. Some characters will show up earlier than they do in the series, others will show up later, and some events' timing will happen differently--or not happen at all. There will also be some minor OCs here and there to fill out flights or provide some narrative help--the OCs, however, don't change the overall story. It's tricky to write an AU without creating something entirely new and pasting the RWBY characters onto it, or blindly following Rooster Teeth.

_Squadron Dispersal Area Alpha, Joint Base Beacon_

_Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_12 April 2001_

It was a beautiful day to fly, Ruby reflected happily. There were a few clouds, but nothing major; over the target area, the clouds would be scattered to broken. The temperature was crisp enough to wake one up, but not enough to be bitter. 

It always amazed her just how much gear was required to fly a fighter. She wore her flight suit, a G-suit, a survival vest, combat boots, a lifejacket, and various hookup points for oxygen and radio. The survival vest was a marvel of miniturization: stuffed in all the pockets was a rubber survival map, concentrated rations (which for Ruby was a few chocolate chip cookies), survival radio, extra batteries for the survival radio, baby bottles for water, a water purification kit, a tourniquet which she fervently prayed she would never need, a complete but tiny first aid kit, and a wire saw. 

Next to that was a survival knife. Ruby carried essentially a switchblade, which was what most pilots carried to save weight. Yang, however, preferred a Bowie knife. And next to the knife was a pistol. Despite her love for weapons, Ruby contented herself with a 9mm pistol; once more, Yang felt the need for something bigger and carried a .357 revolver. Her tailored red helmet—specifically molded to Ruby’s head, which contrary to Yang’s insistence was not misshapen--was carried in her helmet bag. She walked with Yang, who had donned a pair of aviation sunglasses, with which no self-respecting pilot was complete without—though Ruby had forgotten hers back at Signal. Yang did not walk so much as she swaggered, with the self-assured confidence of the steely-eyed defender of democracy. 

The dispersal area was divided into sections of two, so named because they were dispersed in case of enemy air attack; one pass would at best get only two aircraft on the ground. The dispersals were also staggered so all eight aircraft assigned to them could scramble within five minutes. Yang laughed with the sheer thrill of expectation when she saw the yellow nose of _Ember Celica_ poking out of the nose of the first revetment. 

“Now what lucky son of a bitch got paired with me?” Yang announced, and she and Ruby hurried over to the next revetment. Ruby’s heart sank. Sitting in it was not the gray nose of _Crescent Rose,_ but the black, hunched nose of the F-14 Tomcat. Blake was leaning against it, about to climb up to the cockpit. Yang shrugged. “Well, I guess that makes sense. Both big ol’ air superiority planes. Sorry, Sis.”

Ruby fought down the urge to swear or cry, but sighed instead. She couldn’t rely on Yang forever. At some point, she had to grow up. Besides, as she got closer to the F-14, her sorrow was replaced by curiosity. “Blake?” Ruby asked hesitantly. “Where’s your backseater?” She looked around, but other than ground personnel, there was no other pilots in the revetment but Blake, herself, and Yang.

“Oh, that?” Blake motioned towards the canopy. “Don’t have one.”

“No, you don’t,” Yang breathed. She ran her gloved fingers over the black nose of the F-14. “Oh, I heard about this baby. Never thought I’d see it.” Ruby was staring quizzically at her, so Yang playfully slapped her head. “C’mon, weapon nerd. This is the _Gambol Shroud.”_

Ruby remembered. “No way!” They’d heard rumors of the Navy working on an updated version of the Tomcat. The original F-14 had been designed in the early 1970s, when the bulky radars of the time needed someone to run it, while a pilot concentrated on flying. Newer technology did not really need a dedicated radar officer, so the _Gambol Shroud_ was an attempt to eliminate the position to save weight. The intakes were slightly canted and dogtoothed in an effort to make it more stealthy, and Ruby noticed that the black paint wasn’t for show: it was a version of the “ironball” radar-absorbent paint used by stealth aircraft. There were other rumors Ruby had heard as well, that the _Shroud_ had more than just superficial stealth. It was above her clearance, Ruby knew, and she also knew better than to ask. It was interesting that the Navy would hand over their F-14GS to a Marine pilot, but that just meant that Blake Belladonna was good. 

“Guess we’re wingmen. Or mates. Whatever.” Yang stuck out a hand, and Blake, after a moment’s hesitation, took it. “Can’t wait to see what your _Shroud_ can do.”

“Can’t wait to see what your Silent Eagle can do,” Blake returned. “See you up there.” She lifted her helmet.

“You bet.” Yang motioned at Blake’s hair bow, which was still perched atop her pinned-up hair. “Aren’t you going to take that off?”

“What?” Blake realized what Yang was talking about and touched the bow. “Oh. Oh, uh, no. It’s for good luck. It fits under my helmet.” 

“I gotcha.” Yang tossed her a half-assed salute and began walking back to _Ember Celica._ Fighter pilots were weird creatures, and many of them were superstitious. Some refused to have their picture taken before they took off, others had to place a stick of gum in their mouth exactly when cleared to taxi, some carried rabbit’s feet. “Ruby, you’d better get going before someone slips in your drool.”

“Right, right.” She began to walk away too, then called back. “Yang?”

“Yeah?”

“I…” Ruby looked at her boots. “I love you, Sis.”

“Love you too.” Yang waved, turned and ran for her aircraft. She did not want Ruby to see her cry.

Ruby made her way past the other revetments. She smiled when she saw Nora happily smothering Ren in a hug, as her A-10 was parked next to his J-10. She laughed when she saw Jaune and Pyrrha looking everywhere but each other, as his Mirage was next to her F-16; Ruby noted in passing that Pyrrha’s aircraft was the newest mark of the F-16, the Block 52, with a much more powerful engine and radar. _No fair,_ she thought. 

That thought was interrupted by an entirely new one: Yang was with Blake, Ren was with Nora, and Jaune was with Pyrrha. That meant…

“Oh God.” Ruby saw _Crescent Rose_ and what it was parked next to.

“ _Mein Gott._ ” Weiss Schnee had arrived at the same time. Her _Myrtenaster_ was actually not much bigger than _Crescent Rose,_ but it seemed bigger. 

“This can’t be happening,” they said together, in two different languages.

_Upper Mississippi River Barrier_

_West of Black River Falls, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_12 April 2001_

Ruby Rose looked over at the Eurofighter Typhoon of Weiss Schnee. “It doesn’t look any prettier in flight either.” She’d read up on the Typhoon, of course, being the aircraft enthusiast that she was, and knew the Typhoon had earned a good reputation. It still seemed like an aircraft designed by committee, with a blocky intake mated to a smooth body, big delta wings, and canards beneath the cockpit that looked like afterthoughts. She noticed the six small sensors clustered under the nose. _That must be that DUST_ _system Snow Angel over there is so proud of. Wonder if it even works. Guess I should’ve read that pamphlet last night._

After taking off from Beacon, Weiss had taken the lead without asking, leaving Ruby to follow. Grumbling to herself, she slid into the correct position behind and to the right of the Typhoon. Ruby supposed Weiss had the right because she outranked Ruby, but it was still mean. She let the F-16 drop a little down to check what ordnance Weiss was carrying. _Let’s see…four AMRAAMs, and four…what the hell are those? Oh, those are IRIS-Ts, that new German missile. Figures Ice Princess would have access to them through her daddy, or mommy, or whoever runs Schnee Gummy or whatever it was that Blake called it yesterday. And two drop tanks. Well, at least she’s loaded for GRIMM._

Ruby slid back into formation and once more checked her own loadout. Two Sidewinders hung on her wingtips, along with two AMRAAMs of her own, and two external drop tanks. She didn’t even have half of what Weiss’ Typhoon carried. _But I’m cuter and I have a smaller butt,_ she smiled to herself. _So I got that going for me._

They reached the Mississippi River soon enough, twenty thousand feet below them. Even from this height, they could see the fortifications along the eastern bank, designed to keep marauding GRIMM out of Wisconsin. There was a lot of ground to cover, however, and inevitably GRIMM would slip through the gaps in the line. The first line of defense were fighters. Missions like this one were designed to sweep through the Dead Zones and stir up trouble. GRIMM could not be wiped out—the nations of the world had been trying for forty years—so the best that could be done was to thin them out or drive them off. Relatively short-ranged sweeps were common enough, but only the very best pilots, mated to the very best aircraft, would be sent on the deeper sweeps into country that was truly infested. That was what Ruby wanted more than anything, because only Hunters and Huntresses were assigned to those kind of missions. 

“Weiss, Ruby, Pinetree.” The voice belonged to a ground controller somewhere in the forests below. To avoid confusion, the pilots were using their first names; it was not like GRIMM cared much for codes. “Your signal is Twilight, I say again, Twilight.”

“Pinetree, Weiss. Roger. Check in, Ruby.”

Ruby sighed. “Ruby.” 

“Thank you,” Weiss radioed back, dripping with sarcasm. “Let’s go.” The Typhoon accelerated, and Ruby moved her throttle forward to keep up. She knew the other aircraft was faster than her F-16; it could break the speed of sound without even using its afterburner, and reach Mach 2 without much trouble. _Crescent Rose_ could reach Mach 2 only in a dive. The Mississippi slid past in moments, and they were truly in monster country. 

Weiss was now more than two miles ahead of Ruby. “Weiss, Ruby. I’m in trail, two miles. What’s the hurry?”

“I will not this mission be delayed because you’re too slow!“ Weiss ducked out of instinct as the F-16 rocketed past the Typhoon. Ruby had had enough. She slowed down long enough for Weiss to catch up. “I’m not slow, Weiss,” Ruby told her. “Just because I’m not good at dealing with people doesn’t mean I’m not good at dealing with GRIMM.” She took up position on Weiss’ right wing and looked over at the German girl. “You’re about to see a whole different side of me today. You’re going to be all like, ‘Wow, that Ruby girl is totally awesome and I will be her wingperson any day!’” 

Weiss stared at her over her oxygen mask. Ruby noticed her helmet was pale blue and decorated with snowflakes. “Bullshit,” she said. After a pause, Weiss pointed down. “Okay, Little Red, let’s see you prove it. Get down to about angels five and see what you can stir up. I’ll drop down to ten thousand. Keep your nose cold and I’ll see what my DUST can see.”

“Roger. Nose cold.” That meant to keep her radar off; GRIMM, somehow, carried their own radar detection sensors and could pick up radars scanning for them. For fighter pilots, switching on a radar was like turning on a flashlight in a dark room: they could see things, but the enemy could also see them. Just to put a punctuation mark on the sentence, Ruby snap-rolled into a dive and was gone from Weiss’ sight. 

“ _Dummkopf,”_ Weiss sighed as she began her descent. She wondered if she had angered someone at Beacon, someone in the Luftwaffe, or God Himself to be paired with the weakest of the Vytel Flag participants. _Second weakest,_ she corrected herself. There was still that Jaune freak. _You’d think a Frenchman would know not to mess with a German._ Putting that out of her mind, she leveled off at ten thousand feet, reached forward and switched on her DUST equipment, then pulled down the visor on her helmet. DUST was designed specifically for fighting GRIMM, able to react faster than a human could. Unlike Ruby, who would have to center her targets in the reticle on her Heads-Up Display, Weiss only had to look at her target and press the trigger: the missile would already be looking in the direction she was.

Almost as soon as Weiss switched it on, alarms went off. Her eyes immediately went to the threat display in the HUD. Six cones appeared behind her: someone—or some _thing_ —was locked onto her. A half dozen somethings. Her hands reacted before her brain completely processed the information. First, she slammed the throttle forward to accelerate. Even as Weiss did that, her index fingers were triggering the chaff dispensers beneath her Typhoon, to throw off her pursuit. She counted two seconds, then snapped upwards into a climb, with a half-roll at the top. Now she was facing her foes.

There were six of them. _Beowolves,_ Weiss thought without fear.

Beowolves were the weakest of GRIMM—at least, that Weiss knew of. They were small, half the size of a F-16, single-engined, with only a small cannon in their blunt nose and two hardpoints for missiles under their straight wings. While maneuverable, they could only take a single hit, and their onboard computers were easily confused. Individually, a Beowolf was little threat, but they traveled in packs, and a pilot in Weiss’ situation would find themselves pulled apart as they were attacked from several directions—as a wolf pack would bring down a bigger deer. 

Unless, of course, the pilot was Weiss Schnee, and flying a Eurofighter Typhoon equipped with DUST.

A warning shrilled in her helmet as one of the Beowolves fired a missile at her, but she instantly knew that the parameters off. She popped a flare just in case, but the missile went wide. She looked at the offender. Her helmet sight instantly fed her the target information—range 25 kilometers, target speed 450 kilometers an hour, closing speed almost 600 kph—and Weiss pulled the trigger. Even as one AMRAAM dropped from _Myrtenaster’s_ fuselage, DUST was already feeding the other three AMRAAMs targeting information on three more targets and offering Weiss’ helmet sight the one with the best kill probability. 

The Beowolf abruptly exploded. Weiss blinked, saw that her missile was still heading towards the target, but then saw Ruby’s F-16 come out from under her nose, accelerating towards the fireball. DUST marked the friendly target with a blue triangle, but the AMRAAM merely saw another target and locked on. “ _Mein Gott!”_ Weiss screamed. “Ruby, buddy spike! _Buddy spike! Break left, break left!”_

Ruby’s right hand moved instantly, sending _Crescent Rose_ into a hard left turn. Fear gave the turn added impetus—buddy spike meant that Weiss was seconds from shooting her down by accident. Fate stepped in, however: the AMRAAM, thrown off by Ruby’s sudden break, tried to reacquire first her F-16, then another Beowolf, then simply engaged neither and flew off in the general direction of Wisconsin. That was suddenly the least of either woman’s problems, however: Ruby’s break also put her F-16 squarely in the path of Weiss’ Typhoon. 

Weiss filled the air with blistering German oaths, which freely translated, claimed that Ruby’s parents were never married and that Ruby harbored sexual desire for her own mother. She made a hard break right, felt the Typhoon bounce through the jetwash from the F-16, nearly collided with another Beowolf, and finally was clear. Ruby, for her part, dived away and then climbed, throwing off yet another GRIMM that was trying to lock onto her. “Ruby, knock it off, knock it off! Reform at angels thirty!” Weiss ordered. Above twenty-five thousand feet, the Beowolves, for unknown reasons, never ventured. 

They joined up and orbited over the pack of Beowolves, which were confronted with an empty sky and flew off to the west. “I could have killed you!” Weiss shouted at Ruby.

“You’d have to try harder than that!” Ruby screamed back. Deep down, Ruby knew she was in the wrong—she had seen the Beowolves rise up from the forest and try to ambush Weiss from behind, and her first instinct was to climb and engage, to break up the Beowolves’ attack before they shot Weiss down, and had shot down the first Beowolf with a missile shot. She had not even noticed that the other pilot had turned around and engaged herself. Ruby let go of the throttle and stick for a moment. Her gloved hands were shaking. A second, a half-second slower, and Weiss’ AMRAAM would have blown her F-16 out of the sky. Her anger was more directed at herself than the German. 

“Were you born stupid or does the US Air Force give special training?” Weiss ranted. The Typhoon snapped over on one wing and headed west. “Fall into trail, Ruby, and try not to shoot me down.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, fighter pilots really do carry that much in survival suits! What Ruby has on is a description of the standard USAF survival vest (with the possible exception of cookies). Yang wanting bigger knives and bigger guns is also accurate for some pilots; people who are interested can look up the story of "Hoser" Satrapa, who carried so many personal weapons that the gross weight of his F-8 Crusader was actually affected by it.
> 
> I'm trying to keep terminology as close to the real thing without being confusing. I also like to slip little Easter eggs into the story--keen-eyed readers might get the origin of "Pinetree," and the name of the go code. Yep, I'm still a Brony at heart.


	7. Dragon Rider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Weiss and Ruby try not to shoot each other down, Yang and Blake engage Ursai north of the ruins of the Twin Cities. Can they work together better than Weiss and Ruby? And far to the south, Pyrrha learns that Jaune may not be all he appears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More dogfight action! I missed two days of updates because of Christmas and working on "One Night in Atlas," but should be back on a schedule now.

_North of the Ruins of Minneapolis-St. Paul_

_Vale Air Defense Sector, Minnesota Dead Zone, United States of Canada_

_12 April 2001_

Yang Xiao Long was bored.

Most people in her position would not be. She was, after all, flying a high-performance fighter, and a rather unique one at that. She was also flying over an area that was still irradiated; the Soviet nuclear missile that had destroyed the Twin Cities had been laced with strontium-90. The forests below her had recovered, but people still feared to venture into the immediate fallout pattern, even forty years later. And then there was also the little matter of the place being infested with GRIMM—which she was hunting, and were surely hunting her. 

But Yang was still bored.

She was also somewhat alone at the moment. After taking off from Beacon, she and Blake had decided to use the “eyeball-shooter” formation: Yang would go ahead with her radar on, scanning the skies and ground for GRIMM. Blake would hang back, using the _Gambol Shroud’s_ stealthiness and leaving her radar off. Once Yang identified any targets, Blake could support Yang, or do what the F-14 did best: long-range combat. Underneath Blake’s Tomcat were slung two AIM-54 Phoenixes, with a range of over a hundred miles and a warhead that could destroy almost any GRIMM. Yang found herself liking the laconic Marine: there had been no arguing over flight lead; Blake simply recognized Yang’s aggressiveness and let her have the lead position.

Still, Yang thought to herself, as her eyes automatically quartered the skies for threats, she would have felt better with Ruby out there on her wing. The F-15 and F-16 were designed to work together, and Yang, despite knowing that her sister was more than capable, still wanted to defend Ruby. In any case, she didn’t trust Weiss. The German girl was too selfish, too willing to pull rank.

_Ember Celica_ wasn’t yet equipped with DUST, but its advanced radar was more than capable of picking up threats. Her radar warning receiver picked up two hits: something below was looking at her. There should be nothing down there: Nora Valkyrie and Lie Ren were to the south. It had to be enemy. “Blake, this is Yang. Two bandits at ten miles, at my twelve o’clock.” A moment later, she saw them. “Tally-ho! Bandits are two Ursai; am engaging.” Yang dropped _Ember Celica’s_ nose. “Yang, Fox Three!” 

An AMRAAM shot from one of the F-15’s underwing hardpoints and locked onto one of the Ursai. Now Yang could see them; they were hard to miss once they broke cover. Ursai were the bigger, nastier cousins of Beowolves: they shared the same blunt nose and straight wings, but were faster and carried more weapons, including a nasty heavy nose cannon. They were nowhere near as maneuverable, but they could also take a beating: Ursa could shrug off a single Sidewinder hit, and even survive an AMRAAM. 

The missile tracked into the first Ursa and exploded. It came out of the explosion, wobbly but still intact. Yang saw the other Ursa split to the right to flank her. It was the bigger threat at the moment, so she turned into it and fired another AMRAAM. At the same time, the Ursa fired two missiles back. The world had yet to figure out exactly what missile technology GRIMM used, but they did know that it could be defeated. Yang rolled and dived into a split-S to break the Ursa’s lock as her own missile impacted. The two enemy missiles shot well wide, and Yang threw in a roll at the bottom of her dive to get back on course. She pushed the throttle forward and used the kinetic energy picked up in the dive to climb. Another Ursai missile shot over her head. She laughed. “You guys couldn’t hit the broadside of a bar—“

_Ember Celica_ rocked with a hit. Yang’s eyes immediately went to her instrument panel, but no fire lights came on, nor any other warning lights. Still, she had been hit somewhere, by something.

And that _really_ pissed Yang Xiao Long off.

The climb had carried her above the Ursai, and she could see one of them trailing smoke. Teeth bared beneath her mask, Yang rolled in upside down, her fingers switching from missiles to guns. The more logical side of Yang warned that this was not the wisest course of action: she could simply stand off and loft AMRAAMs into the Ursai until they went down. The emotional side told the logical side to shut the hell up: _Ember Celica_ had been hit, and for that, she was going to put blood on the walls. A missile shot was too impersonal, and a gun pass was far more satisfying. The Ursa tried to turn, but it was too damaged, and Yang easily rolled in behind it. She pulled the trigger. The 20mm Vulcan gatling cannon nestled in her right wingroot spit shells at a hundred rounds a second. The Ursa rocked under the impact of the shells, and Yang tracked them into the GRIMM’s head. Flames leapt backwards and the Ursa fell into a dive that terminated in the forest far below. 

Her RWR warbled for her attention: the remaining Ursa was now behind her. Yang slammed the stick into her right knee and stomped the right rudder pedal, racking the F-15 into a hard turn that pushed her into her seat, caused the G-suit to grab and squeeze, and caused vortices to stream from her wingtips. She was now head-to-head with the Ursa. “You want some of this too, fucker?” Yang shouted. “Come and get—“

Two missile trails came from the left side and the Ursa vanished in an explosion. Yang climbed over what little remains fell out of the fireball, and looked to her left. _Gambol Shroud,_ wings spread to slow down, joined up with her. “Yang, Blake. Are you all right?”

Yang smiled. “Yeah, I’m good. I could’ve taken him.”

“No doubt.” Yang could hear Blake’s smile through the radio.

“Might want to let me know when you fire a missile, though.”

“I did. Didn’t you hear it?”

Yang considered. She’d been so angry that she might not have heard Blake’s Fox call. Then she remembered the hit she’d felt. “Actually, Blake, if you don’t mind, could you give me a once over? I think one of those Ursa might have gotten lucky.”

“Sure.” Yang held course while Blake dropped back. She slowed and looked over the underside of _Ember Celica._ “Engines look fine.” She looked closer. “I see it. You’ve got a small hole in the right wingtip. Doesn’t appear to be serious.” Blake came up on Yang’s right. “Everything else looks fine. Is she handling all right?”

“Roger that. No prob.” Yang waved towards her. “Charlie Mike. Let’s see what else is sneaking around out here. You want the lead for awhile?”

“Don’t mind if I do. Blake has the lead.” The F-14 moved out in front.

“Yang to Pinetree. Splash two Ursa.”

Pyrrha Nikos smiled to herself at Yang’s radio call. “It seems our comrades have encountered the enemy.” She looked over at Jaune. Whereas Blake and Yang were using the eyeball/shooter tactic, Pyrrha opted for keeping Jaune as close as possible. On whatever kind of radar the GRIMM used, her F-16 and Jaune’s Mirage would appear as a single blip. With any luck, the GRIMM would go after a lone target, only to find themselves engaged with two opponents. 

It also kept Jaune within visual range. Pyrrha noticed that he kept either straying too far out, which would make the entire close formation a moot point, or getting too close and risking a midair collision. _There is something not right about him._ Pyrrha checked her radar suite—unlike Ruby’s older F-16A, her F-16C had a radar every bit as good as Yang’s and Weiss’ aircraft—saw that it was clear, and came to a decision. “Jaune, this is Pyrrha. Push freq three, go secure.” This moved them from the overall radio net that everyone could hear to a discrete frequency that only the two shared. “Jaune, how do I read?”

“Five-square, Pyrrha. What is it?”

Another glance at the radar, then a visual scan. “Jaune, you’ve never been in combat before, have you?”

There was a pause. “No.”

“I’m sorry to ask. How many hours do you have on the Mirage?”

Another pause. “Er…simulated or real?”

“Real.”

“Ah…about seventy-five hours. Including this mission.”

Pyrrha blinked. _My God,_ she thought, _he’s green as grass. He shouldn’t be up here. He shouldn’t even be assigned to Vytal Flag! The French are not that desperate for pilots._ “Did you fly other aircraft before this?”

“Huh? Oh, yes! I, uh, flew the Rafale.”

“Ah! I’m sorry.” That made more sense. The Rafale was the top of the line French fighter, of the same generation as Weiss’ Typhoon and Yang’s Silent Eagle. _Perhaps he angered someone in the Armee de l’Air, or perhaps the French are not willing to let their Rafales over here just yet._ She knew that the French were experimenting with their own version of the _Gambol Shroud._ That did not help the immediate situation, however. Though in theory a pilot could fly any aircraft, as the basics were the same, there were differences in performance that could be lethal, to say nothing of cockpit layout. Even if she were in Ruby’s _Crescent Rose,_ Pyrrha knew there were significant changes between the two models of F-16s. “Jaune, I have some combat time in Mirage 2000s. If you need any help, don’t hesitate to ask.” 

“Thanks, Pyrrha.” 

“Combat spread. Push freq one.” Jaune shifted to a position well off her right wing, still within visual; it ended their attempt to appear as one radar return, but it was a more flexible formation. Jaune could concentrate on combat rather than just trying to stay with Pyrrha. They returned to the squadron radio net.

“Pinetree, Ren. Splash one Taijitu.”

“Well.” Pyrrha looked over at Jaune. “It appears our friends are having all the fun. Shall we head north and join up?”

“Pyrrha has the lead,” Jaune radioed back. 


	8. United We Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruby and Weiss manage to get lost, but that changes in a hurry when they run into a Nevermore--at the same time Pyrrha and Jaune find a Death Stalker. As eight pilots converge on the largest GRIMM they've encountered, it's going to take everything they have to destroy their enemies, and leaders will have to step up.

_Near the Ruins of Mankato_

_Vale Air Defense Sector, Minnesota Dead Zone, United States of Canada_

_12 April 2001_

“I don’t believe this,” Ruby Rose said to herself. “We have GPS, inertial navigation systems, and a friggin’ map programmed into our planes, and we’re lost.”

Obediently, she had followed Weiss across a good portion of what used to be southern Minnesota. For ten minutes her vision had been limited to the twin tailpipes of Weiss’ Typhoon. Below them the forests and plains had disappeared under a thin undercast—not enough to worry about as far as bad weather went, but enough to hide ground features. A light came on her instrument panel: her external fuel tanks were dry. Ruby leaned forward and switched to internal fuel, and was about to drop the tanks when she remembered Goodwitch’s words on that subject. She drew back. _If we get into another dogfight, I’m dropping the damn things, and Glynda Goodwitch can kiss my ruby rosy red butt._

Finally Ruby could take no more. They had to be getting close to the chop line. “Weiss, this is Ruby. Where are you taking us?”

“Ruby, Weiss. I am taking us to the Twin Cities. Which you would know if you would just follow me and keep quiet.” Ruby sighed, with the microphone button down, and Weiss snapped, “Oh, stop it! You don’t know where we are either!”

“Either?” Ruby asked, trying to keep the I-told-you-so smirk out of her voice and failing miserably.

Weiss cursed under her breath. “Fine. We are indeed lost.” She wanted to kick her instrument panel. The Typhoon was equipped with a top-of-the-line navigation suite, but the DUST system occasionally interfered with it. Weiss had suspected so for the last five minutes, but was not about to admit it to 2nd Lieutenant Ruby Rose that Schnee GmbH equipment might be flawed. 

The solution was simple enough: more than likely they were headed west. A easy 180 degree turn, and they would be back on track east, towards the Mississippi. But that would use fuel, and every minute used getting back on course was a minute they were not finding GRIMM to shoot down. Weiss was not about to return to Beacon without a kill. That was assuming they were headed west and had not drifted off course. 

Weiss punched the side of her cockpit in frustration. “Ruby, Weiss. We’ll have to use your nav system. Mine is inop.” 

To her credit, Ruby did not gloat. “Roger that, Weiss. Let me have the lead.” Weiss acknowledged, and the F-16 moved past her Typhoon. Ruby led them on a gentle curve to the right. “Okay, on course to the Twin Cities. My nav is good, and as long as we keep the North Star on the left quarter, we’ll be fine.”

“It’s daytime, Ruby.”

“And? I can see it.” 

The German girl snorted derisively. “Oh, I am sure.” 

“I can!”

Weiss rolled her eyes. Just to prove a point, she strained to see a star through the blue sky. She didn’t see it, but caught movement out of the corner of her eye. “Ruby. Bandit, ten o’clock low.”

Ruby dipped her left wing and looked down. “Whoa. That’s a Nevermore.”

If Beowolves and Ursai were the fighters of the GRIMM, the Nevermore was the heavy bomber. It was huge, all-wing, except for its split tail and the barest hump of a nose. Because of its shape—and other technology humanity had yet to discover—it was very hard to lock onto. It was not maneuverable, but it was also very tough and surprisingly fast for its size. Often entire flights had to be dispatched to destroy Nevermore. When it reached settlements, the array of turrets on its belly would rake the ground. A similar array of turrets dotted its uppersurface. Far more than other GRIMM, Nevermore tended to be singleminded, inexorably heading for whatever target it was aimed at until it was destroyed. This one was headed northeast.

“Weiss, I have an idea,” Ruby radioed.

“Oh God.”

“Listen, dammit! Let’s trail it and see where it’s going. We’ll keep our noses cold. It doesn’t detect us yet. Maybe we can ambush it.” 

“We’re not powerful enough to take on a Nevermore—“ At that moment, a shrill tone erupted in Weiss’ earphones. One look at her radar warning readout told why. “Ruby, I’m spiked!”

“Me too!” Ruby did three things very quickly: she punched off her drop tanks, she pushed the throttle up, and she dived through the undercast. As Weiss saw the turrets of the Nevermore iris open and point in her direction, she followed.

“Pyrrha, Jaune. I’m picking up a large radar return.”

Pyrrha looked at her radar display. “I’m not getting anything.” 

“Sorry. Ground contact.”

Pyrrha switched her radar to air-to-ground. There was a bright bloom ahead of them. “That’s strange.” They were flying at 15,000 feet, where GRIMM liked to operate. So far, they had gotten nothing. On the horizon, Pyrrha saw the ruins of the Twin Cities, but the radar contact was much closer. 

“I’ll check it out,” Jaune volunteered. “Jaune has the lead.” Pyrrha dropped back, although her F-16 was actually the better choice for air-to-ground scanning. She watched the Mirage drop down to around five thousand feet. On the radar, Pyrrha could tell he had passed the target. “Pyrrha, Jaune. No joy. Nothing there. I think it’s an old, abandoned refinery—“

The Death Stalker erupted from the rusting ruins of the refinery and spit fire at the Mirage. 

Yang winced and shouted into the open radio net. “Whichever little girl is screaming over Channel One, knock it off!” She and Blake had passed the ruins of the Twin Cities a moment later and were heading south in a combat spread. Then she saw Jaune’s Mirage climbing hard, spinning, as tracers split the air around him. “Whoa! Blake, there’s a lot of fire at eleven o’clock low.” There was no answer. “Blake?”

“Yang, is that your sister at two o’clock high?” Blake asked.

Yang’s head whirled. A red-trimmed F-16 shot through the undercast, followed by a Typhoon that nearly collided with the Mirage. As Weiss shouted for Jaune to get out of the way, Ruby’s call overrode her. “Heads up! Nevermore at my six o’clock high!”

“Ground contact at grid square 82913.” Pyrrha waited for Ruby to finish, then called out her own report. “Classify contact as Death Stalker.” 

An explosion on the ground to the east caught everyone’s attention. “Woo-hoo!” called out Nora Valkyrie with a laugh. “Nora and Ren, splash one Ursa at grid square 82914!”

The Death Stalker emerged from the refinery. The Nevermore came out of the clouds. Yang could see Nora’s A-10 and Ren’s J-10 approaching from the east. “Great! The gang’s all here,” she deadpanned. Her eyes switched from the Nevermore to the Death Stalker. “So we can die together!”

Pyrrha Nikos saw the Death Stalker crawl out of the refinery, and for a moment, could do nothing but stare in horror. Whereas most GRIMM were airborne threats, the Death Stalker was only technically aerial—it floated on massive jet engines like a hovercraft, but could not clear the ground more than fifty feet, as it was so heavy. It was heavy because the Death Stalker was a massive drone, well-armored, and exceptionally well armed: two turrets sat on either side of its scorpion-like head, each armed with gatling cannons, while a third turret, armed with a battery of radar-guided missiles, sat to the rear. While the two forward turrets could only engage in the front and side quarters, the third was omnidirectional. Jaune’s survival when it opened fire was more luck than skill. Pyrrha’s mouth was dry with fear.

“First Squadron, this is Yang! Buster east! We can’t take on both of those!”

Her training then reasserted herself, but it was Jaune, now leveling off well to the west, that spoke her thoughts. “Jaune to First Squadron! We’ve got to lead them north! If we head east, they’ll follow us across the river!”

Pyrrha fought down her fear. She was the highest-ranking person on site; she needed to take command. “First Squadron, Pyrrha. Jaune’s right. Extend north; we’ll try to engage over the Twin Cities.” She quickly switched frequencies. “Pinetree, Pyrrha. Am engaged with a Nevermore and a Death Stalker. We need assistance immediately.”

“Pyrrha, Pinetree. Second Squadron is engaged with Beowolves to the south. Third Squadron is on its way. ETA fifteen minutes, best speed.”

“ _Skata!”_ Pyrrha cursed in Greek. This engagement would not last five minutes. They were effectively on their own. 

The eight aircraft headed north—Blake, Yang, Ren and Jaune were the first to reach the ruins; Pyrrha and Weiss were a few seconds behind. Nora, the slowest, actually outdistanced the latter two: she laughed merrily as she dodged moss-covered ruins, so low neither GRIMM could effectively track her. That left Ruby, who had ended up to the southwest and the furthest to go. The Nevermore locked onto her and began firing. A rain of shells speared down towards the F-16. 

Ruby had never been so scared in her life. She shoved the throttle past the detent and into afterburner; her hand blurred as she moved the control stick in weaves. 

“Ruby, get out of there!” Yang shouted.

“I’m trying, dammit!” Ruby shot back, gasping for breath. The G-suit was squeezing and letting go as she twisted and turned. Then she was through the steel rain.

“Ruby, Blake, watch out! Three o’clock low! Break left _now!”_ Blake had been watching the F-16 get past the cones of fire from the Nevermore, but realized before the others that the Nevermore wasn’t just trying to kill Ruby, it was herding her—towards the Death Stalker.

Ruby didn’t question the order, but the screaming in her helmet wasn’t just coming from her sister or Blake: her threat warning gear was shrilling that the Death Stalker was locked on. She stole a glance backward and saw the GRIMM’s dorsal turret opening up like a flower of death. Ruby dropped chaff and threw her F-16 into a roll, but the lock on tone remained steady, as if the Death Stalker was screaming _“Found you! Found you!”_

 _“RUBY!”_ Yang screamed. Her fingers tightened around the trigger, but her AMRAAMs would not guide on a ground target.

The Death Stalker’s ventral turret suddenly shook with an explosion. It still fired, but the tone abruptly stopped. The missile barrage chased a chaff cloud and exploded harmlessly well behind Ruby. She craned her head back to see what had saved her life…and saw a Typhoon curving away from the Death Stalker. Gunsmoke trailed behind the left wingroot. Ruby let out a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. “Thanks, Weiss.”

“Good shooting, Weiss!” Jaune called out. 

“My turn!” Nora yelled. “Nora’s in hot!” Ruby passed the A-10 as it made a hard turn—at this altitude, few aircraft could match the Warthog’s snap-turn capability—and headed directly at the Death Stalker. Ironically, the aircraft everyone except Nora had believed might be a liability on this mission was now their best chance at succeeding in it.

“Blake here. I’ll cover you.” Blake accelerated the Tomcat forward—and then there were three Tomcats. Yang’s eyes widened as she made a long curve over the overgrown ruins of the Twin Cities’ airport. “So that’s what that does,” she said. The Death Stalker clearly classified the _Gambol Shrouds_ as the bigger threat, and its nose turrets opened fire, giving a Nora a clear run. 

Nora was a little too enthusiastic, and opened fire a tad too soon. The GAU-8 Avenger 30 millimeter cannon chewed up old concrete and trees before it hit the Death Stalker in the head. Nora pulled off the target as the dorsal turret slewed in her direction; she jinked first left and then upwards, throwing off the turret, but also flying into the path of Blake’s F-14. 

Blake swore as she slammed the stick into her left knee to avoid the A-10, then felt the Tomcat heave as it hit the jetwash of the other aircraft. She moved the throttles up and dived, forcing air through the intakes. The sudden movement overloaded the _Gambol Shroud’s_ holographic projections, which faded, and Blake found herself heading towards the Nevermore. It gave her a sudden, dangerous idea. She pushed the throttles forward even more and began dropping flares behind her. With a bang Blake didn’t hear—the noise was far behind her—the Tomcat went supersonic, and straight past the Nevermore. She fired both of her AMRAAMs off her wing stations: they were too close and too fast to arm, but the sheer speed of impact caused the Nevermore damage. Then she was past: the Nevermore struggled to lock onto the _Gambol Shroud_ , and her speed was too fast in any case. 

Ruby saw the near midair collision. _We’re getting in each other’s way. We’ve got to get control of this._ She climbed to where she could see the battle; hanging upside down in her straps, she looked down. “Yang, Weiss, Blake! We can take the Nevermore! Jaune—“ She saw the Mirage on a long curve to the west “—you, Pyrrha, Ren and Nora, can you guys take on the Death Stalker until Third gets here?”

“Only one way to find out!” Jaune replied, giddy with resignation. He was quite sure he was about to die, but Arcs did not go down without fighting and with a minimum of hysterical screaming.  
  


Ruby rolled over and turned her attention from that battle; that was up to Jaune and the rest. “Yang, Ruby, can you get the Nevermore’s attention? Lead it north over the city! Weiss, come back around and stand by to engage!”

“Roger the hell out of that!” Yang was already overhead the Nevermore at thirty thousand feet. She split-S and dived straight at the Nevermore, which was still trying to track Blake. Like the other woman, she fired her last wing-mounted AMRAAMs ballistically into the Nevermore, then leveled out over the broad back of the GRIMM, lit her afterburners, and headed straight for the ruins. 

The effect was like waving a red cape in front of a bull. The Nevermore’s computer brain, reeling from four impacts in quick succession, altered its programming to destroy its new target at whatever cost. The huge drone turned and accelerated after Yang, turrets coming to bear and opening fire. 

Yang twisted and turned, got lower, and used the buildings as cover. The Twin Cities had been hit by a Soviet one-megaton warhead that landed between Minneapolis and St. Paul: the blast had toppled a few buildings and left others barely standing. Time had caused the survivors to crumble, but enough remained to absorb the steel darts fired at Yang. She slowed down, but not by much, grinning with sheer exhilaration as she dodged death from ruined buildings or kinetic rounds by mere feet. Her hands moved the throttle and stick and her feet moved the rudder pedals, and _Ember Celica_ responded as if it was an extension of her body. The Nevermore wasn’t particularly sporting: it just crashed through the ruins, mindlessly damaging itself. 

Ruby watched as Yang emerged from the dust and smoke. “Sierra hotel, Yang! Zone five and climb!”

Yang struggled out a “roger” as she pulled the stick back into her lap and engaged the afterburners, going into a hard climb. Few aircraft could climb better than the F-15. The Nevermore could not match that and its computer knew it: instead, it locked on its dorsal turrets against a spreadeagled target in a blue sky. 

“Nail ‘em, Weiss! Blake, get ready for a Phoenix shot!”

Though Weiss remarked to herself that Ruby could be doing a better job at communicating, she had guessed the other pilot’s plan. As the Nevermore cleared the building, the damage from four AMRAAM hits and from flying through ruined buildings had badly compromised the GRIMM’s stealthiness. Her visual targeting computer now had a clear lock-on. “Weiss, Fox Three.” She fired her last three AMRAAMs. “DUST,” she spoke clearly, “lock on IRIS.” The DUST system, cued to her voice, slewed the infrared sensor in the nose of the Typhoon, which quickly obtained a lock as well as she closed on it. “Salvo IRIS.” The computer slaved all four heatseeking missiles to a single pull of the trigger. Weiss fired, and the four IRIS missiles leaped from their rails towards the Nevermore. “Weiss, Fox Two. Off to the right.” She pulled hard away from the target. Two of the three AMRAAM hit, but only half the IRIS; two chased the heat of the ground. The Nevermore staggered, and the fire intended for Yang went wide.

“Pyrrha’s in, east to west.” The Death Stalker was still reeling from Nora’s hits, but that would not last for long. She rolled in and fired her Vulcan at the left turret, seeing some hits as she climbed away. The right turret spun to acquire her, but now Jaune came in, following Pyrrha through her attack. His heavy 30 millimeter cannon pounded the right turret, which began to smoke. Pyrrha, acting on instinct more than sight, skidded her F-16 at the top of her climb, shuddered on the edge of a stall, and dived in on the right turret, exhausting her ammunition on it. She nearly clipped the trees as she pulled out, but now that turret hung askew, and the left was spinning crazily, trying to acquire either Pyrrha’s F-16 or Jaune’s Mirage.

The Death Stalker did not see Ren. He came in fast, firing his cannon. The missile turret launched a flight of missiles at him. Ren waited half a second, long enough for the missiles to commit as warnings went off in the cockpit, then threw the J-10 into a climb and roll. The missiles flew under him, unable to turn to meet his climb, and hit a row of mildewed houses. Still upside down, he fired a Sidewinder: radar-guided missiles might not guide on the Death Stalker, but it was giving off plenty of heat, and the missile battery was the hottest target of all. The Sidewinder hit at the base of the turret, and a halo of flame leapt up from it. With a spark, the turret locked in place—still operational, but unable to move. The remaining turret, however, followed Ren through his climb, and fired. Ren felt the shells hit the J-10, and said the fighter pilot’s prayer, universal in any language: “Oh, shit.”

  
  
Blake had gone a good twenty miles away before turning back around. She switched to the heavy Phoenixes beneath the Tomcat. She checked the range to the target—thirty miles, which was close to the minimum range for the Phoenix. There was also the question of the missiles would even guide; her radar was having trouble locking onto the Nevermore. She’d have to take the chance. “Blake, Fox Three.” She pulled the trigger twice. First one and then the other Phoenix dropped from the fuselage, ignited, and shot up and away. The missiles rapidly climbed to sixty thousand feet, where their own radars clicked on. The Nevermore was staggering upwards, on fire, trying to gain altitude as its radar searched for targets. The Phoenixes found the GRIMM and roared downwards at five times the speed of sound. The Nevermore detected the threat and opened fire: one Phoenix exploded, but the other blasted into the Nevermore’s back.  
  


“Ren!” Nora shouted, and let fly her rocket pods. Back at Beacon, the A-10 was loaded with what the armorers believed would be the best setup for GRIMM fighting: two Sidewinders, four rocket pods, and a pair of 20 millimeter gunpods. The rockets hit, but most struck the Death Stalker’s armored carapace. It did throw off the remaining turret’s aim, allowing Ren to escape.

“Ren, how bad are you hit?” Jaune called out.

“Picked up some rounds in the engine and the wing.” A fire warning light came on, and he activated the onboard extinguisher. “I have to RTB before I lose power.”

“Pyrrha’s in, west to east.” Pyrrha made another Immelmann turn and came back at the Death Stalker. 

“Pyrrha, Jaune! That missile turret’s locked! Knock it out!”

Pyrrha, with a flick of her right wrist, changed targets to the missile turret and fired both Sidewinders from her wingtips. Both smashed into the turret and exploded, blowing it into the air. She pushed into afterburner, acclerating away as the last turret tried to acquire her F-16.

Nora saw her chance. She had climbed, but now rolled over and dived straight at the Death Stalker. The turret’s barrels rotated, came to rest, and began firing. Sparks flew off the titanium nose of the A-10, but Nora ignored it. “My turn!” she laughed, and fired not just the nose mounted gun, but the two gunpods as well. The recoil nearly stopped the A-10 in midair, throwing Nora against her straps; the effect of her shells gouged huge holes in the Death Stalker’s carapace. Fire lanced through cracks in the GRIMM’s torso, and it seemed to collapse into itself. Nora had barely gotten airspeed back and cleared before the Death Stalker’s magazine went off, blowing it apart. 

“Pinetree, Nora!” she giggled. “Death Stalker destroyed!” 

“Damn thing won’t go down!” Yang was at seventy thousand feet, looking down; around her, the sky had darkened to a deep indigo. 

“Ruby’s in, north to south.” Ruby had looped in from the north, and the Nevermore was nearly stalled directly in front of her. She was too close for even her Sidewinders, so she switched to guns, waited until the Nevermore filled her gunsight, and fired. She emptied the 500-round drum of the Vulcan cannon, then rolled left, barely clearing the Nevermore. The shells tore through the GRIMM’s nose. It stalled, sank backwards, and crashed into what had once been a suburb of St. Paul. “Pinetree, Ruby! Splash one Nevermore!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ruby being able to see stars in daytime isn't some sort of supernatural power: there have been fighter pilots (including aces Saburo Sakai and George "Screwball" Beurling) who could actually see stars during the day-their eyesight was that good. Is it because of Ruby's silver eyes? Maybe, but having good eyesight is one of the things all fighter aces not named Max Sterling must have.
> 
> Nora gets to shine in this chapter. When she's thrown forward firing the A-10's main armament, that's accurate: A-10 pilots actually can't just hold the trigger down and empty their giant ammunition magazine: the recoil of the GAU-8 will stall the aircraft if the burst is too long. Of course, most things on this planet usually don't survive even a short burst from an A-10.
> 
> There's a Star Wars reference in here that's fairly obscure. The part where Blake's F-14 hits the jetwash is sort of a Top Gun reference, except that Blake's piloting a modified (heavily modified!) F-14D, which had much better engines than the F-14A Maverick and Goose were in. Sorry, Adam Taurus, you're going to have to figure out a different way to kill the Gambol Shroud...


	9. Aces High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pilots return to Beacon, where Captain Ozpin and Colonel Goodwitch wait for them. Flights have to be formed, with Ruby Rose and Jaune Arc in command. But why would two flights be handed over to the lowest-ranked pilots in the squadron? Why isn't Weiss Schnee or Pyrrha Nikos in command? And why is Ozpin so pissed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rip off Top Gun mercilessly in this chapter. Probably the last time I do that.
> 
> There's a little in-joke at the end of the chapter--see if you get it.

_Commanding Officer's Office, Joint Base Beacon_

_Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_12 April 2001_

Ozpin looked at the report over a cup of coffee. Glynda Goodwitch stood behind his swivel chair, staring out over the flightline. Night had fallen. The base was lit up, and she could see mechanics swarming over Ren's J-10. He had made it back to Beacon and executed an excellent landing, considering the damage to the rudder. The rest of First Squadron had returned safely as well, though Ruby and Weiss were on fumes by the time they did. The pilots were ordered to shower and change, then to report to Ozpin's office.

There was a knock on the door. "Come in," Ozpin ordered.

The door opened to admit Pyrrha Nikos, wearing the dark blue uniform of the Hellenic Air Force. She came to attention before his desk. Ozpin's eyes beetled in confusion. "Major Nikos?" He was not about to try his luck with the Greek version of her rank. "Where's the rest of your flight?"

"Waiting outside, sir. I'll just be a minute." Her eyes remained on the flightline outside, not meeting his. "Captain, were you planning on giving me command of that flight?"

"I was. You have the rank and the experience, and you showed your skill this afternoon." He tapped the folder in front of him. "You showed why your country sent you here—and appeared on a cereal box?" Ozpin smiled.

Pyrrha did not. "They're not really good for you, sir. The cereal, I mean." She hesitated, then plunged on. "Captain Ozpin, with respect, I must decline command of the flight."

Goodwitch folded her hands behind her back. "That is surprising, Major. You haven't been recalled to Greece, have you?"

"No, ma'am. I want to remain here. But I do not want command." She faltered, looked down. "You've read my file, Captain. You know about the…incident…over Crete."

Ozpin shook his head. "That was an unfortunate event, Major. Surely nothing to—"

"For the last time, Captain Ozpin, and again, with respect. I will not command a flight." She tapped her wings. Like the British Royal Air Force, the HAF's wings were sewn onto the uniform. "I will resign my commission before I command a flight."

Ozpin leaned back in his chair and rubbed his knuckles. "All right, Major, you've made your point." He sighed. "Who do you recommend to command your flight?"

"Jaune Arc."

Goodwitch looked over the top of her glasses. "Arc? He's lucky to get out of his own way."

"He has potential, ma'am. When I hesitated against the Death Stalker, he took command. I think he will do well if given a chance—and more responsibility."

"He's junior," Ozpin answered her. "Lie Ren is next in line in seniority."

"Captain Ren agrees with me."

Ozpin stared at her for a moment. "Ask the rest of the flight to come in."

Pyrrha nodded, opened the door, and waved the other three pilots in. They came to attention, and Ozpin was struck by the international flavor of the flight. All four wore blue, but in different shades and cuts, representing Greece, France, China, and the United States. "Ladies and gentlemen, Major Nikos has informed me of her desire to not command your flight. With some trepidation, I have agreed with her. Captain Ren, you are next in seniority, ahead of Lieutenants Valkyrie and Arc."

"Sir." Ren spoke smoothly and without hesitation. "I believe that Lieutenant Arc should command this flight."

Ozpin pursed his lips. "I see. Lieutenant Valkyrie?"

"Yes, sir!" she chirped. "I think Lieutenant Arc will make a great flight commander."

Ozpin hesitated again, then reached into his desk and produced a bottle of Wite-Out. He spread it over the hand-lettered title on the folder, thought a moment, then wrote down four letters: JNPR. "Very well. You are now Juniper Flight. Lieutenant Arc, you are in command for the rest of the tour. Congratulations, young man." Ren clapped politely and smiled, Nora cheered, and Pyrrha, a shy smile spreading on her face, gave Jaune a polite pat on the back. Jaune turned beet red and looked as if he wasn't sure if he should laugh or throw up.

"Show in the next flight, please." The newly-minted Juniper Flight left the office.

* * *

There were a few backslaps and cheers from the hallway, and then Ruby Rose, Weiss Schnee, Blake Belladonna, and Yang Xiao Long walked in. All four came to attention. Ozpin was once more struck by the differences and similarities. Ruby and Yang wore USAF blue; Weiss' Luftwaffe uniform was a shade darker and carried her rank on both shoulders and collar tabs; Blake wore Marine khakis.

"Ladies," Ozpin greeted them. "You had a hell of a first day." Ruby opened her mouth to say something, only to be cut off. "You're lucky to be alive!" The steel in his voice cut through the room. The four of them would have expected Goodwitch's wrath, but not Ozpin, which made the sudden raising of his voice all the more intimidating. "Captain Long, Lieutenant Belladonna. You did well enough against the Ursai, but you allowed yourself to get too far north and did not maintain sufficient radio contact with the other section of your flight." Blake stared at her boots, while Yang gritted her teeth.

"As for you, Lieutenants Schnee and Rose, your conduct today bordered on the ludicrous. Lieutenant Schnee, you took the flight lead without consulting Lieutenant Rose. You consistently lectured her when it was not your place to do so. And you got your flight lost, which may have endangered the entire mission."

"Sir!" Weiss protested. "It was the DUST equipment, it interfered with the navigation system—"

"Which you should have known about," Ozpin interrupted. He tapped the DUST for Dummies pamphlet that lay on his desk. "It's clearly outlined in this pamphlet that DUST is still experimental and may, I quote, 'have unforeseen technical failures on newer aircraft.'" He shook his head. "When you lost your navigation, you should have immediately turned over flight lead to Lieutenant Rose."

Weiss' cheeks burned. "Captain Ozpin, with respect, Lieutenant Rose is—"

Goodwitch pounced. "Lieutenant Schnee. How many flight hours do you have?"

"Four thousand hours," Weiss said with not a small trace of pride.

"How many combat hours? Before today," Goodwitch added.

Weiss looked back at her defiantly, but could not meet the other woman's gaze. "Before today…none."

"And how many air-to-air victories?"

Weiss gave her feet the same attention Blake had given hers. "None," she said quietly.

"You have more time in the Typhoon than Lieutenant Rose has in the F-16," Goodwitch told her, "but Rose has five air-to-air victories—four air pirates and one GRIMM." Her lips curled briefly into a smile. "I believe that makes her an ace. Doesn't it, Lieutenant Schnee?"

Weiss' jaw was clenched so hard the muscles audibly cracked. Since the days of fabric and wood biplanes in World War I, an ace was a pilot who achieved five kills. While on the surface that did not seem like a high number, only ten percent of all pilots would become aces. In a war between humans, forty percent of all pilots would become fodder for the ten percent. Less than one percent became aces in their first two missions. Most pilots were lucky to survive their first ten combat missions. Ruby Rose had beaten the odds and then some.

"Answer me, Lieutenant." Now it was Goodwitch whose voice took on an edge.

"Yes," Weiss answered shortly.

"Say 'ma'am.' Officer present."

"Ma'am!" Weiss barked the word and clicked her heels together. Goodwitch let it slide; she was not sure if Weiss was being sarcastic or it was merely instinctual.

Ruby was fighting a smile and losing—not because of Weiss' discomfort, but because she was an ace. Not even Yang was an ace! She was, therefore, taken completely by surprise when Ozpin rounded on her. "And as for you, Lieutenant Rose, you nearly shot down Lieutenant Schnee!" Ruby wilted. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Ruby said exactly the wrong thing. "Sir. I had the shot on the Beowulf. There was no danger to Wei—Lieutenant Schnee, so I took it."

"You took it!" Ozpin snapped, though his voice did not raise to a shout. "And broke a major rule of engagement! And you broke another one by arguing with Lieutenant Schnee like a couple of schoolgirls!" He sighed and turned away from both of them. "Lieutenant Rose, Vytal Flag rules of engagement exist for your safety and that of your team. They are not flexible, nor am I. Either obey them or you are history. Understood?"

Ruby fought back tears. She had expected praise, not this. "Yes, sir!" she barked it out much like Weiss had.

Ozpin turned back to them and gave a short nod. "Good. Now that we've gotten that disagreeable business out of the way, allow me to offer congratulations on the destruction of the Nevermore. All of you more than made up for earlier transgressions by your successful teamwork—including you, Lieutenant Rose. In fact, you showed flashes of actual leadership by recognizing that you and Juniper Flight were getting in each other's way, and dividing targets. All four of you worked exceptionally well together, as we had hoped." Ozpin moved the JNPR folder out of the way to reveal a second one, marked RWBY. "With that in mind, I have made you flight leader of Ruby Flight. Congratulations."

Ruby's silver eyes rounded, while Weiss' jaw dropped open. Yang shot both arms in the air in triumph, and Blake gave a hesitant, but warm smile. Ozpin allowed himself a small one. "Given that 2nd Lieutenants are rarely awarded flight leader status, and we can't have butter bar aces running around, you will be promoted, First Lieutenant Rose. Brevet First Lieutenant." Ozpin punctured Ruby's wide grin a little. Brevet ranks were not official, and awarded only in wartime. Technically—even with the GRIMM attacks—the world was more or less at peace, but Ozpin could bend the rules a little. "If you earn it, that rank will become permanent." He sat down in his chair. "Congratulations," he repeated. "Now, dismissed."

* * *

Goodwitch finally let loose her smile, though it was a wan one. "Promoting the two most junior officers we have to flight command. Sometimes, Ozpin, I think you choose teams based on what kind of weird anagram you can make."

Ozpin laughed. "Why, Lieutenant Colonel Goodwitch! I am shocked, shocked mind you, that you would make such baseless accusations." He ran his hands over the RWBY and JNPR folders. "Besides, the other anagrams weren't as good." He drained his coffee cup. "Yes, it's going to be an interesting six months."

* * *

In the hallway outside of Ozpin's office, Yang once more tried to bend her sister's ribs out of place with her hug. "So proud of you!"

Blake shook hands with her. "Well done, Ruby."

That left Weiss. She was not smiling. "You are so childish," she remarked. "And dimwitted, and hyperactive, and don't even get me started on how you throw that F-16 around." Then her features softened. "That said, I can be…difficult at times. If we're going to do this and get through this training, we must do it together." She held out a hand. "So if you quit trying to show off, I'll be…well…nicer."

Ruby took the hand. "I'm not trying to show off, Weiss. I want you to know I can do this."

Weiss smiled. Genuinely. "All right, then. Shall we go grab something to eat? I'm starving."

Blake smirked. "Since Marines don't get paid much, I defer to Yang and the United States Air Force."

Yang rolled her eyes. "Hell, why not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel a little bad being so hard on Weiss in this chapter, but she'll get her chance to shine. And the stats on aces? Those are accurate. It is very rare for a pilot to become an ace. The last American ace achieved that honor in October 1972 (in real history).


	10. Too Much Time On My Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The newly-created Ruby Flight wakes up to the first morning of their training. There's a few housekeeping things to do first, and then it's off to their first class.
> 
> But despite what she said the night before, Weiss is still not happy to be under the command of Ruby.

_Building 91213 (Female Officers’ Quarters)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_13 April 2001_

The early morning sunlight crept across the bed of Weiss Schnee. As it reached her face, she instinctively curled into a ball and rolled away from it. The sun was not to be denied, however, and Weiss opened her eyes. She blinked for a moment, then smelled the sweet smell of pine trees, dewy grass, and fresh air. Weiss stretched and settled back on her pillow, not quite awake but not quite asleep.

What would’ve been a pleasant, easy morning was shattered by some fiend grabbing two trash can lids and banging them together like cymbals like a lunatic monkey. Weiss stiffened and levitated out of bed, ending up in a pile of bedclothes, pajamas and flailing limbs. “Drop your cocks and grab your socks!” shouted Ruby Rose.

“ _Was im Namen Gottes!”_ Weiss exclaimed. She looked up to see the madly grinning Ruby, flanked by a slightly less demented Yang Xiao Long and a faintly disgusted looking Blake Belladonna. All three wore fatigues. Blake gave Ruby a sidelong glance. “You do know that is anatomically impossible, Ruby.” She gave Weiss a hand up. 

“Duh,” Ruby shot back. “It’s just something my uncle used to say to get us out of bed.” Yang snickered. “And now that you’re awake, we can officially begin the day’s operations.”

Weiss straightened her nightgown. “And that would be?”

“Decorating!” Yang said happily. 

“We still need to unpack,” Blake added. 

“Ah, yes. Allow me to go change.” Weiss headed for the bathroom.

“I’ll help you unpack those boxes!” Ruby called after her. 

“Those are actually mine,” Blake said. “The expensive luggage is hers, but the U-Haul boxes are mine.”

“Whatever!” Ruby was not about to be dissuaded. “Let the first mission of Ruby Flight begin!”

It was, Weiss thought later, surprisingly fun. The room was a large one, with plenty of shelf space: a third of that space went to Yang’s music collection, while the rest went to Blake’s books, much to everyone’s surprise. The reputation of the United States Marine Corps was that those who joined tended to eat crayons, drink napalm, do nothing but think of ways to kill America’s enemies in a most gruesome fashion, and yell loudly about it afterwards. Blake seemed to defy all those stereotypes. Ruby did not take up a lot of room, which was also something of a surprise—she had a small collection of books and music, and three airplane models, and that was about it. Weiss, for her part, had packed mostly clothes, though she also had a modest music collection. 

The walls were military gray, in line with the Navy rule that if it does not move, paint it gray. Yang hung up a picture of a boy band; Blake had nothing. Weiss and Ruby had the same ideas: to no one’s surprise, Ruby’s idea of decoration were posters of fighters, big glossy USAF prints. Weiss carried with her a small, framed photograph of the Alps in winter, and an illuminated script of a quote:

_Only the spirit of attack, born in a brave heart, will bring success to any fighter aircraft, no matter how highly developed it may be._

It had been written by World War II German ace Adolf Galland. Blake, Yang and Ruby all looked at it once Weiss had hung it up, and nodded appreciatively. Fighter pilot bars tended to be covered in such pithy quotes. 

Yang wandered over to where Blake was patiently putting books on the shelves, in alphabetical order. Most were books on military history, naturally, but it was an eclectic collection. “I’m surprised you’re not a mud mover attack pilot,” Yang commented.

“Oh? How so?” Blake decided not to take it as an insult.

“Lots of books on counterinsurgency.” 

Blake shrugged. “Know thy enemy. We won’t always be fighting GRIMM. Remember the air pirates?”

“How could I forget?” Yang touched the spine of one book. “What’s this? _Ninjas of Love?”_

“Oh, that!” Blake laughed, a little too loudly. “That’s a study of, ah, romantic notions of traditional Japanese society and how it affected the kamikaze tactics of World War II!” 

“Weird title.”

“I know, right?” Blake had surreptitiously placed herself between Yang and the book in question. Luckily for her, Yang was distracted by shiny objects and was soon inspecting the medals on Weiss’ dress uniform. 

Finally, they were done. For reasons she wasn’t even sure about, Weiss had brought a frilly rug that tied the room together. There was just one thing missing. 

“Where do we put the flipping beds?” Yang asked.

The beds had been moved out into the hallway while the decoration and unpacking had commenced. Now there was not enough room for them, unless they were forced together—and none of them particularly relished the idea of climbing over the other three if someone had to go to the bathroom.

“I guess we could take down some of the shelves,” Yang sighed. “We’d have to move some of the CDs and books, though.”

“Or…” Ruby’s face lit up. “We could replace the beds with bunk beds!”

Blake considered it. “I’m not against the idea, but I don’t know if we could requisition bunk beds from base supply. It might take awhile.”

“Requisition smequisition,” Ruby scoffed. “We could make them ourselves.”

“That sounds incredibly dangerous,” Weiss said.

“And super awesome!” Yang finished. She was clearly onboard with the idea.

“It would be efficient,” Blake agreed. 

Weiss bit back a comment on Marines and squad bays. “We should put it to a vote.” 

Ruby’s hand shot into the air, Yang threw up devil’s horns, and Blake gave it a thumbs up. Weiss groaned audibly. “There you go,” Ruby told her. “Democracy in action.”

To her credit, once outvoted, Weiss threw herself into her work, and did not run away screaming when she saw Ruby’s idea of bunk beds. Her bed was suspended from hooks in the ceiling, held up by strong rope that she had scrounged from somewhere, with a blanket suspended like a mosquito net over the bed. It looked terrifying and would make an engineer cry, but to Weiss’ surprise, it easily handled both Ruby and Yang leaping onto it. Of course, should the ropes break, the entire contraption would come crashing down onto Weiss’ bed. “I’m going to be sleeping under the sword of Damocles,” she muttered in German. 

“Want to switch?” Blake asked her. She didn’t understand German, but the expression on Weiss’ face did not need translation. 

“No, it’s all right…my father always said I needed to conquer fear.” Weiss looked at Yang and Blake’s attempts. Theirs looked more like an actual bunk bed, but the only thing holding up Yang’s bed were spare books. Weiss hoped for Blake’s sake that Wisconsin was tectonically stable. 

“Well, that wasn’t a chore,” Yang said, slapping her hands together. “They gave us the morning off, so when’s our first class?”

“1200.” Ruby picked up her notebook and sat on her bed. “Plenty of time.”

Weiss pointed to the clock. “It’s 1150, _dummkopf!”_

“Scramble!” Ruby shouted, slammed her notebook shut, and ran for the door, right behind Weiss. Blake, who had lay down on her bed, was nearly run over by Yang. “Move that broad ass, Marine!” Yang screamed.

“I do _not_ have a broad ass!” Blake yelled after her.

Luckily for them—and Juniper Flight, who Ruby Flight almost suffered a gigantic collision with in the hallway—their first class was just across the base quad. Besides Ruby and Juniper, there were two other flights Ruby herself recognized from the day before: Cardinal and Coffee Flights.

Hung on the wall were schematics of various GRIMM. Ruby and Juniper Flights had barely taken their seats when Weiss spotted a portly man wearing the Royal Air Force uniform of a Wing Commander walk into the auditorium. “Attention! All rise!” she commanded. The pilots got to their feet.

“At ease, at ease,” the Wing Commander rumbled warmly, and they sat down. He was tall and a bit heavy, with gray hair parted down the middle and a heroic mustache; he appeared to be every inch the old RAF professional. Under his wings were an equally impressive row of ribbons. “Good afternoon!” he greeted the pilots. “I am Wing Commander Peter Port, of His Majesty’s Royal Air Force.” He gazed around the room. “Can anyone tell me what they’re here for?”

There was hesitation around the room, but finally Blake raised her hand. “To learn?”

“Of course, Captain Belladonna. But to learn what, exactly?”

Lie Ren raised his hand. At Port’s nod, he said “To fly and fight.”

“Excellent answer! Yes, absolutely—and don’t you forget it!” Port walked over to the GRIMM schematics. Weiss noticed that he leaned away from his turns, like a big ship underway. He slapped one poster of a Beowolf. “And to kill these! Monsters! Demons! Prowlers of the night!” He smiled beneath the mustache. “But I refer to them by another name, and so should you: as targets.” Port placed his hands behind his back. “GRIMM are scary beasts, my friends. But we, as prospective hunters and huntresses, should not fear them. Respect them, yes—but not fear.” He pointed in Ruby Flight’s general direction, then Juniper’s, then Cardinal’s. “As these people proved yesterday. And quite a haul it was! Six Beowolves, three Ursai, a Nevermore, and a Death Stalker! I think we don’t have to worry about GRIMM from the Minnesota Dead Zone for awhile.” He waved at Coffee Flight. “Not to worry, ladies and gentlemen—you had bad luck yesterday, but you’ll get your chance.”

Port moved back up, closer to his students. “Now then! All of you here have learned to fly, and fly well, and after yesterday, all of you now have some combat time. Some of you, naturally, had combat time before your arrival here. I know of at least three aces in this room—Captain Adel, Major Nikos, and Lieutenant Rose.” Weiss glanced back at the first person Port pointed to. A tough-looking, dark-skinned woman with short brown hair and beige fatigues stared back. Weiss turned her attention back to Port: whereas Pyrrha had sad eyes and Ruby annoyingly bright ones, Adel’s were the eyes of a killer. She would have to learn more about her. 

“Given how few aces there are, that is quite an achievement.” Port held up a finger. “But how many of you have shot down something besides GRIMM?” Before anyone could answer, Port once more pointed at the three women. “All of these ladies have. Only Major Nikos, however, is an ace against sentient beings.” He did not notice a shadow cross Pyrrha’s face. Weiss did. _She looks like she’s about to cry,_ Weiss thought. _What happened to her?_ Ruby Flight had heard rumors that Pyrrha was supposed to lead Juniper, but she had refused in favor of Jaune Arc, despite Jaune’s inexperience--and, in Weiss’ opinion, incompetence. 

“And that brings me to my next point.” Port began a slow walk up and down the first row of seats. “GRIMM are nasty creatures, to be sure, but they are limited by the fact that they are, in the end, nonsentient drones. While we still—even after forty years—do not know what or who controls the GRIMM, their computer brains can be fooled. Beowolves, in particular, are not terribly bright. In fact, when I was in India back in ’70, in my trusty Hawker Hunter…”

Weiss saw Ruby’s head slumped down to her chest, her eyes closed. Irritated, she gave Ruby a sharp kick to the shin under the table. Ruby jumped, startled, and Weiss stabbed a finger at Port’s back. The other girl nodded, rubbed her eyes, and after a few moments, began writing in her notebook. Weiss then checked on the other members of Ruby Flight. Blake was paying attention to Port’s story, while Yang was also looking around the room…and was being a lot more obvious about it. Occasionally she would exchange a nod with someone. 

After checking that Port was on the opposite side of the row, Weiss leaned over to Yang. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Checking out everyone else. Seeing who the best is.” Yang winked at her. “After me, of course.”

“Of course,” Weiss said under her breath as she straightened up in her seat; Port had turned around. Although her curiosity was also peaked, Weiss fought down the urge to emulate Yang. Instead, she evaluated Ruby Flight.

Blake was sitting up straight in her seat, her yellow eyes—something Weiss had yet to figure out was the other woman’s strange eye color—following Port intently. Blake was every inch the Marine, laconic, with no vices that Weiss could sense. She sensed Blake to be a consummate professional, one who did her job and did it well, with no complaints. For now, anyway, Weiss liked her.

Yang leaned back in her chair, her feet unseen by Port but braced on the row of desks. She made little secret that she was at best paying half-attention to Port’s lecture; luckily, the old man seemed wrapped up in his story. She had completed her inspection of the other pilots, and now her eyes roamed the schematics of the GRIMM hungrily. Weiss pegged Yang as being immature, prone to losing her temper, and probably loved to drink and party, like traditional fighter pilots—but she had seen what the blonde was capable of in the air. On the ground, Yang might be a hell-raiser, but in the air, she would be deadly. Weiss could respect that, even forgive Yang’s excesses.

And then she turned her attention to Ruby. Ruby was no longer writing in her notebook, but instead trying to balance her pencil on her fingers. To Weiss’ disgust, Ruby had not been taking notes: she had been drawing a grotesque caricature of Wing Commander Port, and labeled it “Professor Poop.” Rage welled up in Weiss’ chest. Ruby was an amateur, a little girl who had gotten lucky, an aberration. So what that Ruby had shot down four air pirates? That was hardly proof of skill! Air pirates were dregs, rejects from civilized society— _anyone_ could shoot them down. To make this brat a flight leader…Weiss gritted her teeth and resisted the urge to punch Ruby in the face.

“Lieutenant Schnee? Oberleutnant Schnee?” Abruptly Weiss realized that Port was standing directly in front of her, and was staring at her.

“Yes, sir!” She nearly leapt out of her seat. 

Port waved her back to the seat. “Such enthusiasm! I imagine you’ve been hanging on my every word. What did I say were the five traits of a successful huntsman—or in your case, a hun _tress_?” 

Weiss’ cheeks burned. She fervently wished for a GRIMM attack, or for a hole to open up in the earth. But there was no way out. “I do not know, sir.”

“You were not paying attention?”

“No, sir.”

Port tapped a fist on her desk. “Tut-tut, Lieutenant. That’s not very Luftwaffe of you.” As scattered titters of laughter filled the room, Port looked up at the other pilots. “Oh, now, don’t laugh. I could see that Lieutenant Schnee was hardly the only person not paying attention. Captain Winchester, you were busy checking out Captain Long’s bust. Captain Long, you were busy checking out everyone _but_ Captain Winchester. Flying Officer Scarlatina, you were picking your nose. Lieutenant Rose, you were trying to see if you could balance a pencil on your fingers. Clearly, my lecture is quite boring, eh?” Naturally, no one answered, but to their surprise, Port laughed. “Of course it was! Who wants to hear about India in 1970? No one!” His smile disappeared. “Except you, of course. I expect an eight-page paper from each one of you about the Indo-Pakistani War of 1970 and the influence of GRIMM on that conflict by tomorrow afternoon’s class.” Not quite muffled groans greeted Port’s announcement. The smile returned. “Now I might, _might_ be persuaded to drop that to a four-page paper, but only if someone can tell me the eight tenets of the _Dicta Boelcke._ ”

The pilots murmured and looked to each other. The _Dicta Boelcke_ had been drawn up by German ace Oswald Boelcke in the First World War. Though Boelcke had fought in fabric-and-wood biplanes—Weiss remembered seeing the Albatros two days before—his basic dictates were still observed in fighter training almost a hundred years later. But not everyone knew they were called the _Dicta Boelcke,_ and even those that did could not recall all eight.

Except one. Weiss stood. “Sir. I know them all.”

Port gave her a nod, and motioned her down to where he stood. “You have the floor, Miss Schnee.”

Weiss stood at parade rest, hands behind her back, and snapped out the rules in a sharp, biting tone. Her eyes never left Ruby Rose.

“Tenet One: try to secure all advantages before attacking, including placing the sun behind you.

“Tenet Two: Always carry through an attack once you have started it.

“Tenet Three: Fire only at close range, and only when your opponent is in your sight.

“Tenet Four: Always keep your eyes on your opponent.

“Tenet Five: In any form of attack, hit your enemy from behind.

“Tenet Six: If your opponent dives on you, do not run, but turn and meet their attack.

“Tenet Seven: When over enemy lines, do not forget your line of retreat.

“Tenet Eight: Attack in groups of four or six, and do not attack the same opponent.”

Port clapped his hands, and the rest of the auditorium erupted in applause. Weiss smiled and gave a short bow of the head. “Excellent!” he said. He put up his hands, and the clapping died down. “Now, can anyone tell me which of his own tenets that Boelcke failed to adhere to, at the cost of his life?”

_Oh no._ Weiss racked her brain. Boelcke had not survived the war; he had been killed in action, but how? That was one she did not know—and should have known. 

Velvet raised her hand and stood. “Sir!” Her voice shared the same British accent as Port. “Boelcke was killed in a midair collision with his wingman…which would mean he violated Tenet Eight, sir.” Weiss’ eyes widened when she saw the two objects sticking up from Velvet’s brown hair. She had not really noticed the other pilot before. _Those are ears. She’s not doing some sort of stupid cosplay, those are real!_ Weiss’ fists clenched, unseen, behind her back. _A Faunus!_

“Very good, Flight Officer.” Port nodded. “Since Lieutenant Schnee has successfully given us the _Dicta Boelcke,_ you will not be required to write a paper on India in ’70.” There were sighs of relief among the pilots. “Instead, you will write a four-page paper on how your engagement yesterday did, or did not, use Boelcke’s dictum. Class dismissed.” The pilots rose as Port turned and walked out. 

The pilots dissolved into conversation as the flights filed out. Blake and Yang were engrossed in their own discussion, and neither noticed that Ruby had not gotten up from her desk. Neither had Weiss moved from the floor. Soon, they were the only two in the auditorium. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our first introduction to Faunus. Yes, they very much exist in this world. Enjoy.
> 
> I've spent a lot of time around fighter pilots, and yes, fighter pilot hangouts do indeed have quotes scattered around. And please don't take my quotes about the Marines out of context-while the other services kid about Marines not being very intelligent, it's always done with a smile on the face. My grandfather was a proud Marine all his life. Yang's reference to broad asses is an old nickname for female Marines during World War II-BAMs (Broad Assed Marines). I doubt that nickname is still being used today!
> 
> The Dicta Boelcke is not something I made up, and yes, it is still taught as part of the syllabus, especially at both the USAF and Navy Fighter Weapons School.


	11. Furious Angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weiss has had enough of Ruby's childishness, and after chewing her out, goes to talk to Wing Commander Port to get a different assignment. Ruby herself wonders if Weiss might be right...maybe she isn't fit to lead the flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another talky chapter. Don't worry, there's more air action coming up soon. I feel kind of bad for Weiss in this chapter; I'm really trying not to make her into a Asuka-like bitch in this story. But she has a valid point about Ruby. 
> 
> You also may be asking how Faunus exist in a world where there isn't any magic. I'll explain that in the next chapter.

_Pilot Training Room B, Building 91913_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_13 April 2001_

Weiss Schnee stared daggers at Ruby Rose, who wilted under the other girl’s gaze. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she said, not meeting Weiss’ eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Why don’t you ask yourself that question?” Weiss snapped. “You’re supposed to be our flight leader, and besides that, a Lieutenant in the United States Air Force. By what Captain Ozpin said yesterday, you are a good one. Are you?”

“I’d like to think so—“

“I don’t!” Weiss cut her off. “I think you got lucky, or the air pirates you fought were even more incompetent than you are. Let’s not forget that you almost killed both of us yesterday.”

Ruby’s head came up, silver eyes blazing. “That’s not fair, Weiss!”

“What’s not fair is that a _child_ got command of a flight!” Weiss shot back. “Instead of acting like a professional, grownup fighter pilot, an officer and a lady, you act like you’re twelve! Drawing stupid pictures of Wing Commander Port, playing around with your pencils—what’s your next trick, trying to eat a cookie with your nose?”

Ruby half-rose from her seat, opened her mouth with the intent of telling Weiss off, but her words hit home. She sank back down. “I thought you believed in acting as a team.”

“I do! Just not a team commanded by you. I’ve studied for this all my life. I’ve trained for it all my life. I graduated at the top of my class, and I have consistently led my wing in gunnery and flying. I came here with the intent of becoming the best. You’re here because Ozpin saw something in you, or likes your eyes, or whatever. And he made a mistake, Lieutenant Rose. A big one.” Weiss stalked out of the auditorium, but paused on the threshold. “And if you don’t want to make another one, Lieutenant, you’ll get out of here and get back to where you came from, before you get someone killed. Someone you _do_ care about.”

Weiss continued to fume as she left the building and headed into the courtyard; people who were in her way shrank back against the walls, as if she was radioactive. Part of her wanted to march into Ozpin’s office and demand a transfer: if this was how the commander of Vytal Flag did things, it would be near lunacy to stay. Throwing people into the deep end by making their first mission against GRIMM was one thing, but assigning flight leader status to incompetents based on some hidden potential was another. Ruby was a child; Jaune was an accident waiting to happen. _Coffee and Cardinal Flights at least got someone with experience—Cardin Winchester is a Weapons School graduate, and Coco Adel clearly has some combat time._ A transfer to another flight might work; it would be better than waiting around for Ruby Rose to screw something else up. 

And in any case, she could not return home. As much as she wanted to, that was no longer an option.

Weiss saw Wing Commander Port making his way across the quad, headed for base headquarters. She moved to cut him off. Port stopped and smiled. “Good afternoon, Oberleutnant.”

“Good afternoon, sir.” Weiss came to attention and saluted. After Port had returned the salute—palm out, in the British style—she acted on her impulse. “Wing Commander, may I have a word?” There was no one else within earshot; this was as private as she was likely going to get.

“Certainly, Oberleutnant. Is this about not paying attention in class today? I would say that you’ve already corrected that mistake, though I advise it not happen again.”

“It will not, sir. That is not what I wanted to address. Do you have any say in flight assignments?”

“I do.”

“Thank you, sir.” Weiss took a breath and continued on. “I would like to request to be made either Ruby Flight’s commander, or be transferred to a different flight. Immediately, if possible.”

Port’s smile faded. He looked down at her. “Request denied,” he said flatly.

“Just like that?” Weiss shrilled.

“Just like that. You may have noticed, Oberleutnant, that there is no air force in the world run at the convienence of lieutenants. Or wing commanders. You have your orders. With your record, Oberleutnant _Schnee_ —“ he emphasized her last name, much to Weiss’ anger “—I would think you would be aware of that. You have consistently had top marks throughout your career.”

“Then why am I not flight commander?” Weiss demanded. She knew her tone of voice was insubordinate, but suddenly didn’t care.

“Your attitude.”

“My _what?”_

“I didn’t stutter, Miss Schnee. From what Captain Ozpin and Lieutenant Colonel Goodwitch have told me, since you got here, you’ve done nothing but play the princess. You demand favors to which you are not entitled, overstepped the boundaries of rank—which you are doing right now, I must point out—and attempted to undermine the authority of those placed over you. Your family may be the most powerful in Europe, but here, that name means nothing, and in fact may work against you.” Port paused, then softened his tone. “Has it ever occurred to you, Oberleutnant, that perhaps the choice of Ruby Rose as flight commander was not only for her benefit, but yours as well?”

Weiss wanted to rail at Port, but that would not be good for her career. “It has not, Wing Commander.”

“Obviously,” Port replied. “Perhaps the good Captain Ozpin thought that you might need a little humility. Are you a better leader and pilot than Lieutenant Rose? Quite possible. Is Lieutenant Rose immature? Also possible. But so are you.”

“I am not!” Weiss shouted.

“If you were not, you would be trying to help Lieutenant Rose become a better flight leader, not stamping your feet like a spoiled little girl who has had her favorite toy taken from her. Do I see Captain Long here? Or Lieutenant Belladonna? Yes,” Port told her, reading the emotions on her face, “Captain Long is Lieutenant Rose’s sister. But I daresay that Lieutenant Belladonna would have no issue raising the same accusations you have made— _if_ she shared them. By acting like you’re doing now, Oberleutnant, you are merely, and continually, proving my point.”

Weiss could not reply to that. The _spoiled little girl_ comment hit her hard. _I am not that,_ she told herself angrily. _I am not that. I got here because I’m good, not because I’m a Schnee._ But just thinking it raised the little self-doubt that always lurked at the corners of Weiss’ mind: that all of her marks, positions, ranks, and assignments were just to please the Schnee family and her father, not because of anything she had done—that she was a sham, a walking lie.

Port put a beefy hand on her shoulder. “Oberleutnant,” he said evenly, “take it from someone who knows. Don’t worry about the things you don’t have; celebrate the things you do. Be _who_ you are, not what you _think_ you are, or others think you are.” He withdrew the hand and nodded. “Right. Think about that. In fact, why don’t you write me a short paper on the subject? Call it punishment for insubordination. Dismissed, Oberleutnant.” Without another word, Port resumed his walk towards headquarters, leaving a very confused Weiss in his wake.

Ruby sat in the cockpit of _Crescent Rose,_ still in her fatigues. She leaned back in the seat, closed her eyes, and went through the old habit of touching the stick and throttle, checking button positions. It was yet another lesson taught by her Uncle Qrow— _sometimes the lights go out,_ she could hear him say in his half-growl of a voice. _You need to be familiar with everything in the cockpit if that happens. And you need to know so you’re not sticking your head down in it and losing your situational awareness. Lose that and you’re going to be a very dead little girl. And I’ve already seen too many dead little girls._

“It was a mistake, Uncle Qrow,” she whispered to herself.

“What was?”

Ruby nearly leaped into the canopy. She saw that it was Captain Ozpin, standing on the ladder, resting his everpresent coffee cup on the cockpit rim. When her heart had resumed something like a normal beat, he repeated his question. 

“Me coming here,” Ruby said sadly. “Weiss is right. I acted like a little kid in class today. I know better than that.” She looked away. “Maybe you should send me back to Signal.”

“I should think that a momentary lapse in judgement on your first day is hardly a reason to quit.” He sipped at his coffee. “You made a mistake. It happens. Do not make it again.”

“I’m not a good flight leader.”

“I repeat, it is your first day. Do you think your Uncle Qrow was a good flight leader his first day?” Ozpin laughed. “Trust me, he wasn’t…but that’s a story for another day.”

“But Weiss…“ Ruby turned to look at Ozpin. “What if you made a mistake?”

Ozpin suddenly seemed very old, and he stared into his coffee. “Ruby, I have made more mistakes than any person on this planet. There is nothing you could do that I have not done.” He returned her look. “Making you a flight leader was not one of my mistakes.” He reached out and ran his long fingers over the throttle. “One time, long ago, I was made a flight leader too. It was in desperate times. But I had friends, Lieutenant. Good friends. We didn’t trust each other at first, but gradually it came. Trust, loyalty, and respect—these things must be earned.” He took another drink of coffee. “’Comradeship makes a man feel warm and courageous when all his instincts tend to make him cold and afraid.’”

“Pretty good words.”

“Not mine. But yes, pretty good words.” He leaned on the cockpit rim. “Lieutenant Schnee is going to be a problem, yes. Now. How are you going to solve it?”

Ruby rested her head on the seat’s padding. “Apologize to her. Tell her I’m going to do better. Ask her to be patient.”

“A good start. I’ll leave you to it.” He clambered down the ladder, and held up his coffee mug to her. “Besides, I need a refill.”

Weiss ate an early dinner alone, at the base cafeteria. Normally, the flights would dine together, but she was in no mood for company. Then she went to the library, found an empty computer, and typed out both papers for Port. World War I was something of her forte, and she enjoyed writing on the subject. 

Papers inside a new binder, Weiss began the walk back to the female officers’ quarters in the cold dusk. There was going to be a confrontation with Ruby—or her sister, Weiss ruefully admitted. Yang was a good older sister, and Weiss knew all about older sisters. Ruby undoubtedly had told Yang what Weiss had said, and while the German girl didn’t _think_ Yang would risk her career by beating the living hell out of Weiss, it was still a possibility. 

Abruptly the sound of trumpets brought Weiss out of her thoughts. She had been to American bases many times, and knew the routine. Everyone outside stopped in place, turned and faced the flag in the center of the quad. Already a group of people were gathered beneath the flagpole. As the plaintive sounds of “Taps” began, Weiss set down her binder, came to attention, and saluted as the Maple Leaf and Stripes was taken down. She held the salute until the daily ceremony was complete. It always fascinated her how the same tune played to signal the fall of night was the same played over burials. Weiss understood tradition, though. 

Once the flag was folded and the last note faded away into the Wisconsin night, Weiss picked up her binder and entered the dorm. She was about to go upstairs to Ruby Flight’s room when she heard an English-accented voice exclaim “Leave me alone!”

Weiss turned down the hallway. Standing against one wall was Flight Officer Velvet Scarlatina, staring up defiantly at Cardin Winchester, who towered over her. Her ears—her rabbit ears—were straight up. Weiss knew enough about Faunus to know that signaled agitation. Her books were scattered on the floor. Cardin was grinning down at her, but there was no humor in it. “Oh, come on now, silly wabbit. All I asked was a simple question.” The grin disappeared. “And I want an answer, _Flight Officer._ ” He heavily emphasized her rank, and put both hands on either side of her, keeping Velvet from escaping.

That was enough. Weiss did not particularly like Faunus, but regulations were regulations, and in any case, Cardin was a few inches from being charged with assault. “Captain Winchester!” she said loudly and clearly. “What is going on here?”

Cardin scowled and turned to her. “None of your business, _Lieutenant._ ” He emphasized Weiss’ rank as he had Velvet’s.

Weiss suppressed a sigh. She knew Cardin Winchester’s kind—male and female. Some people promoted to higher rank assumed that it made them somehow smarter and better, that it compensated for other flaws. Every service, every branch had Cardin Winchesters. “Very well, Captain,” Weiss said calmly. “But I should mention to the Captain that it is after dark, and the Captain is in the female officers’ quarters. Unless the Captain has a pass, the Captain is in breach of United States military regulations. Does the Captain have a pass?”

Cardin’s scowl deepened. “What are you, the damn hall monitor?” Weiss kept her face placid. Finally, Cardin dropped his arms and walked away, out the front door. 

Weiss went over to help Velvet pick up your books. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“No,” Velvet said angrily. When Weiss reached out for a book, Velvet’s hand came down on it. “Thank you for your help, Leftenant Schnee, but I am more than capable of taking care of myself. And with all due respect, I especially don’t want _your_ help.” She gathered up her books and stood. 

“I don’t understand.” _Is it because I’m German?_ Weiss thought. Memories were long in Europe. 

“You’re a Schnee. I’m a Faunus. Do I have to spell it out?” Velvet turned her back on Weiss and walked away down the hall.

“What was Captain Winchester’s question?” Weiss called out.

Velvet paused. Her ears shivered. She looked over her shoulder. “Why Faunus are even allowed here. Good night, Leftenant.” She entered her dorm room and slammed the door.

Downcast, Weiss entered her own dorm room. Her eyes immediately went to Yang’s bunk. It was empty. So was Blake’s. Weiss sighed and set her binder down on the small desk. She heard soft snores coming from Ruby’s bed above hers, and drew back the blanket. Ruby, in her pajamas already, was sound asleep, her head resting on a book, fingers loosely curled around a pencil resting on a notebook. Other books were scattered on her pillow. Weiss reached out and gently pulled a book away from Ruby’s mouth before she drooled on it. She looked down at the page Ruby had opened to. A handsome young man dressed in the service uniform of the Imperial German Air Service, the Luftstreitskrafte: Werner Voss.

Weiss knew Voss’ story. At the age of 20—a year younger than Weiss—he had already shot down 48 Allied aircraft, but his end came in September 1917. He had engaged eight British fighters, every one of them piloted by an ace, and after an epic eight-minute dogfight, was finally killed. Voss had fought bravely and with amazing skill, but ultimately, he had been alone. 

_Like me._ The thought jumped unbidden into Weiss’ head, and she understood what Wing Commander Port was trying to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ozpin is quoting Bernard Montgomery. Though Montgomery's reputation for arrogance is well-founded, he's actually a complex character worth studying. Werner Voss is also an interesting historical character-the TV series "Dogfights" did an episode on his amazing dogfight against eight British aces. If you get a chance to watch it, do it. Weiss has a reason to admire him.
> 
> Oh, and Weiss wondering if Ruby's going to try and eat a cookie with her nose? RWBY Chibi!


	12. Carnival of the Animals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weiss begins to patch things up with Ruby, but is curious if Ruby knows anything about the Faunus. Weiss knows quite a bit, but Blake informs her she doesn't know as much as she thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, more talky. The next chapters get more action-y, I promise. However, it's time to see how the Faunus exist in a world with no magic. 
> 
> This chapter (and another one yet to come) was inspired by a question I had when I was watching the first season of RWBY: why didn't the other members of Team RWBY figure out Blake was a Faunus long before they did?

_Building 91213 (Female Officers’ Quarters)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_13 April 2001_

Ruby’s nose wrinkled, and her eyes fluttered open. She realized two things in quick succession: one, that she had fallen asleep studying, and two, that Weiss was standing there with a mug of coffee. “ _Guten abend,”_ Weiss said. 

Ruby yawned. “Oh…oh, man. I must’ve fallen asleep.”

“You did. Coffee? How do you take it?”

Ruby shook her head. “Ah…with cream and five sugars.”

Weiss’ eyes rounded. “It’s a wonder your head hasn’t exploded.” She crossed over to the coffee machine some brilliant person had installed in all the dorm rooms, next to the room’s small but efficient refrigerator. She loaded Ruby’s coffee with the requested amount of cream and sugar, then poured herself a cup, with just a small amount of cream. After handing Ruby her cup and pulling up a chair, the two women faced each other. 

It was Ruby who spoke first. “Weiss…I’m sorry. You’re right. I didn’t act very mature today. I need to do better. Can you help me?”

Weiss was unable to stop a smile. Ruby’s apology was heartfelt, and said in such a small voice that it made her look more childlike, not less. Weiss allowed herself a small moment of triumph, but heard Port’s words echoing in her head—and Velvet’s as well. “I will, Ruby. And, to be honest…I have not acted very well either. I have been…” Weiss hesitated, then plunged on. “Spoiled. I have not acted like an officer and a lady myself. I forgot that being a Schnee does not automatically make me right.”

“I don’t even know what that is.” Ruby shrugged. “A Schnee, I mean.”

Weiss leaned back in her chair, and relaxed without even realizing it. “That may be a good thing, Ruby.” She took a good draught of coffee. It was good for instant—strong, and bitter. “Maybe we can help each other.”

Ruby laughed. “I think that’s what we’re supposed to be doing.”

“Just so.” Weiss motioned at the empty bunks. “Where’s Yang and Blake?”

“Blake said she was going to go work out at the gym for a bit. Yang got herself a pass and went clubbing.” Ruby made a face. “Of course, she won’t take _me_ along.”

“Why not?”

Ruby turned a little red. “I’m…I’m not old enough to go into bars. The legal drinking age is 21 here, and I’m only 20.”

Weiss nearly laughed, but her eyes fell on the book open on Ruby’s bed, the one with Voss’ picture. Suddenly Ruby’s age was not very funny. “In Germany you would be fine.” Weiss did laugh then, at the mental picture of Ruby with a beer stein bigger than she was. That reminded her of something. “Ruby,” Weiss asked, “not to change the subject, but…what do you know about Faunus?”

Ruby sat up, feet dangling off the bed. “Just what we learned in school. I knew a few at Signal, though no pilots. Velvet’s the first pilot Faunus I’ve ever met. Why?”

“You know what they are.”

Ruby took a drink of coffee. “They’re genetically engineered, right? Hybrids of humans and animals?”

“Exactly.” Weiss took a drink herself, stood up, and looked out the window. “I know the United States—the old one—lost something like 15 million people in the Third World War.” She glanced at Ruby for confirmation, but the other girl shrugged; history was not Ruby’s strong suit. “The Soviet Union lost around 35 million. Europe lost an additional 25 million, from tactical nuclear exchanges, fallout and conventional warfare. Infrastructure and governments collapsed, or nearly did. And then the GRIMM showed up three years after the war ended, which killed millions more. We couldn’t get help from the United States; they had their own problems. Europe was on its own.

“My home country, Germany, was torn in two after World War II, but World War III reunified it—what was left of it. But we were the front lines of the war against the GRIMM, and we needed soldiers, fast, before all of Europe was overrun.” Weiss stared out over the darkened quad. “My grandfather had a solution, but it was a radical one: make soldiers.”

Ruby nearly dropped her coffee. “Wait a minute. Are you saying—“

Weiss continued on as if Ruby had said nothing. “Nicholas Schnee was a geneticist. A brilliant one. He had been already working on genetic experiments before the Third World War, and his lab survived. By splicing animal and human DNA, he created the Faunus.” She turned to Ruby, her voice quiet. “It made sense, yes? Faunus could be ‘grown’ into mature soldiers in three years, rather than fifteen or seventeen. All we as Germans—as Europeans—had to do was hold for that long. And we did. In 1968, Europe counterattacked with Faunus, and we were able to drive the GRIMM back from the Rhine to the Vistula.”

“And made your grandfather a very rich man.” Weiss whirled to see Blake Belladonna standing in the doorway, dressed in gym pants, a T-shirt with USMC stenciled across it, and a towel around her neck. “Good history lesson, Weiss. I’d love to hear the _rest_ of it sometime. Be sure to include the good parts about how the Faunus were _used_ in that war.”

Ruby heard the bitterness in Blake’s voice. “Geez, Blake, are you okay?”

Blake stopped halfway to her dresser. “I’m all right.” She regarded Weiss. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m tired. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that, Weiss.”

Weiss’ face had flushed with anger, but she slowly exhaled. There was enough angry words in Ruby Flight for one day. “It’s all right. You’re not the first one to snap at me today, Blake.” Weiss’ eyes narrowed. “I didn’t realize that talking about the Faunus upset you so.”

Blake paused at her bedside. “Try growing up as the kid with yellow eyes.” Blake chuckled ruefully. “Genetic disorder. I have some sympathy with the Faunus.” She threw her towel into the hamper and pulled out fresh clothes and a new towel. “I’m going to shower. The showers at the gym are broken, unless I want to sneak over to the boys’ room. Knowing my luck, that big asshole Cardin Winchester would be in there.” She crossed over to the bathroom that they shared with the female members of Juniper Flight. “Hope Nora didn’t use all the hot water thinking about Ren.” Blake closed the door behind her and locked it. 

Ruby finished her coffee, hopped off the bed, and put the mug in the sink. “So _that’s_ why her eyes are yellow. I was thinking she was jaundiced or something.” She laughed. “Okay, kidding about the jaundiced part.” When Weiss did not say anything, Ruby walked back over to her. “Earth to Weiss. How are you reading this channel?”

Weiss blinked, then shook her head. “Sorry, Ruby. Just thinking.” She continued to stare at the shower door.

“Of Blake in the shower?” Ruby teased as she hopped back on her bed.

“What? No!” Weiss turned red. “That’s preposterous.”

“Hey, don’t ask, don’t tell.”

Weiss’ retort was cut off by the door slamming open to admit Yang. She was dressed in slacks, a T-shirt that showed far too much cleavage for an officer of the United States Air Force, and a battered brown flight jacket, covered in patches. Her hair was in disarray, she sported a black eye, and a broad grin. Ruby leaned out from her bed. “Holy shit, Yang! What happened to you?”

Yang jumped up on top of her own bed. “Bar fight.” She said it in the same tone of voice one might describe going to the corner store. “You should see the other couple of guys.” She motioned at Weiss’ mug. “Got some more of that? I could use a shot of something strong.”

Weiss went over and poured Yang the rest of the coffee. “You already look like you already had something strong.”

“What? I only had two beers. Just some PBR. Like Uncle Qrow used to say, stuff’s like sex in a canoe—“

“Don’t say it,” Ruby cut her off. 

Weiss handed her the cup as Yang took off her boots. At Weiss’ expression of distaste, Yang pointed to the bruise. “Oh, this? Lucky hit, that’s all.”

“It’s nothing compared to what Captain Ozpin will do when he finds out you were in a bar fight,” Weiss warned.

Yang tossed back a third of the coffee. “But he’s not gonna know, is he, Weiss?” Yang shrugged. “Look, some guy got a little fresh so I let him have it. Then his friends got involved. I defended myself. End of story.” She drank more coffee. “You gonna rat me out?”

Weiss sat on her bed. Technically, Yang was guilty of breaking several regulations. She had been on a pass, true, but that pass did not give her permission to get into fights with the locals. Despite Yang’s claims of self-defense, Weiss was fairly decent at spotting lies; she had a feeling Yang had thrown the first punch as well as the last. _My sister would turn Yang in,_ she thought. _She would say Yang broke the rules, therefore she must be punished._ Weiss returned Yang’s stare. “No,” she replied simply.

Yang’s grin returned. “I knew you wouldn’t. The flight always sticks together. Now what’s this I hear about ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’?”

Ruby snickered. “Weiss was thinking about Blake in the shower!”

“I was _not!”_

The door to the bathroom opened, admitting the subject of the conversation, wearing her pajamas. “You weren’t?” Blake sighed elaborately. “I’m devastated, Weiss. And here I thought we had something.” Her voice was dry as a desert. “Hi, Yang. Have fun?”

“Ugh.” Weiss got up, took Yang’s proferred mug and her own, went to the sink, and washed all three cups. But she couldn’t help but smile and look over her shoulder. Yang was animatedly telling Blake about the bar fight; Weiss noticed that a ‘couple of guys’ now multiplied to half the town. Blake’s expression was one of faint amusement. Ruby was listening intently, eyes wide, leaning forward, hands on her knees, looking all the world like a little girl listening to a fairy tale. 

_I suppose this won’t be so bad after all,_ Weiss admitted to herself.

Later, after lights out, Weiss rolled over in her bed, unable to sleep. Above her, Ruby had managed to finish her paper—with a little help—and was silently sleeping. So was Blake. Yang made up for all of them by snoring like a bent chainsaw. Weiss reached onto the shelf and pulled out her CD player and earbuds, hoping that Tchaikovsky would drown out the noise. 

It wasn’t just Yang that was keeping Weiss from sleep, however. As she put the earbuds in, she stared at Blake’s prone form beneath the covers. The girl’s back was to her, and her long, black hair was pinned up for the night, in the everpresent bow. Weiss thought to herself that she had never once seen Blake without it. At dinner the night before, Blake had mentioned the bow to be a good luck charm, but this was going to extremes. 

Weiss switched on the CD player. Yang was not the only one who had been lying this night.


	13. Hit Me With Your Best Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Hop Two! Cardinal and Juniper Flights take off for some 1V1 training, and Jaune's opponent is Cardin Winchester. When Cardin plays a dirty trick on Jaune and bullies Velvet again, Juniper and Ruby Flights decide to put a stop to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally some flying! Let's get back in the air in this chapter.

_Building 92613 (Vytal Flag Threat and Exercise Briefing Room A)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_14 April 2001_

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Hop Two.” Glynda Goodwitch stood on the stage alone this time. “As we said at the beginning of this exercise, Vytal Flag will consist of both classroom instruction and actual flight time. You had your first class yesterday with Wing Commander Port, so now you will have another mission.” She smiled thinly at the cheers from the fighter pilots. “However, not all of you will fly today.” Her smile broadened a little at the groans that announcement brought. 

A slide came on the overhead. It was similar to the map shown before Hop One, but this one showed the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, northern Wisconsin, and Lake Superior in more detail. “Today we will be engaging in the essence of air combat—1V1. One versus one.” She nodded at the audience. “Single combat.

“In any dogfight, big or small, it will always come down to 1V1. Even if you have 28 GRIMM or 30 air pirates on you, only one can truly get on your tail at a time. It will always be, in a way, 1V1. Master the 1V1 dogfight, and you will master air combat.”

Goodwitch faced the audience. “Today it will be Juniper Flight versus Cardinal Flight. You will be flying over the Yooper Range. Naturally, your aircraft will be unarmed. Each aircraft will be carrying an instrumentation pod on a wing station.” She switched to another slide. This showed a three-dimensional schematic of the range, with tiny models of each aircraft and their flight paths. “The instrumentation pods will transmit your aircraft’s data back to our central computer here, and the rest of us will be able to watch your battles live. Hard deck for this hop is 6000 feet AGL. If you break the hard deck, you had better be out of control, because otherwise I will break you. In half. These rules exist for your safety. We need all the pilots we can get, and if you do some damned fool thing like dive below the hard deck to get a kill, you will find yourself in a 1V1 battle with the ground. And the ground always wins those fights.” 

Behind Ruby Flight, Nora Valkyrie snickered and leaned over to Ren. “Not true! I hit the ground once in my A-10. No big deal,” she whispered. Lie Ren quietly shushed her before Goodwitch noticed.

The lieutenant colonel put her hands behind her back. “Ladies and gentlemen, when you fight GRIMM, you are essentially fighting robots. Here, in these exercises, you are fighting flesh and blood sentient beings. GRIMM are programmed, and their programs can be disrupted. Humans and Faunus are a different story. Your enemy will do the unexpected. You are a target from the moment you leave the ground. I have buried too many friends who tried to use the same tactics we use against the GRIMM against actual pilots, and thought that, just because they were good against drones meant that they were good against everything else.” Another short, crisp nod. “Juniper Flight, Cardinal Flight, here are your opponents.”

Another slide flashed onto the board.

_Russel Thrush (CRDL) (F-16C) vs. Pyrrha Nikos (JNPR) (F-16C)_

_Dove Bronzewing (CRDL) (CF-18A) vs. Lie Ren (JNPR) (J-10)_

_Sky Lark (CRDL) (Hawk 200) vs. Nora Valkyrie (JNPR) (A-10A)_

_Cardin Winchester (CRDL) (F-15C) vs. Jaune Arc (JNPR) (Mirage 2000C)_

“Juniper Flight, Cardinal Flight,” Goodwitch told them, “man your planes. Everyone else will remain here. Good luck, ladies and gentlemen. As Captain Ozpin said, just remember—at the end of the day we are all on the same team.”

_Squadron Dispersal Area A_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_14 April 2001_

“You have such a badass plane, Pyrrha.” Jaune ran his hands over the nose of her F-16. 

Pyrrha, under the nose in the middle of preflight, came out from beneath it. “It is really something. I’ve flown everything my country has, but I think I like the F-16 the best.” She motioned at Jaune’s Mirage across the taxiway. “There’s nothing wrong with the Mirage, Jaune.”

“Oh, I know.” 

“Nervous?”

“Me?” Jaune laughed, a little too loudly. “Oh, heck no. I can take Cardin in my sleep.”

Pyrrha smiled. “Just remember that the F-15 is superior to your Mirage, except that you are smaller. The F-15 is much faster, better at ranged combat, has a better turn rate, and has at least a radar equal to yours.”

Jaune deflated. “I thought you were trying to make me feel better.”

Pyrrha poked him in the chest. “Think! You are _smaller_. Use that to your advantage. Get Cardin in close. He’s arrogant. Play to that. Ambush him. Don’t play by his rules. Make him fight the way _you_ want to fight.”

“Yeah? How are you going to fight Russel?”

“We both fly the same type of aircraft, but he is not as experienced as I am. I will use that to my advantage.” Pyrrha put on her helmet. “Jaune, you just wrote a six-page paper on the Dicta Boelcke lat night. Remember those rules.”

“So will Cardin.”

“Will he?” She held up a hand for a high-five. 

Jaune returned it. “Luck.”

Pyrrha shook her head. “Skill.”

Minutes later, they were in the air. By the rules of the exercise, Jaune and Cardin would fly together to the range area. They would fly in a spread formation. Neither would start with an advantage.

Jaune glanced over to Cardin’s F-15. It looked predatory in its gray camouflage; on the tail was a golden eagle, wings spread. It did not quite have the same capacity or stealthiness as Yang’s Silent Eagle, but in this kind of fight, it did not need to. Jaune swallowed nervously. He really was outclassed here, in more ways than even Pyrrha knew. 

“Jaune, Cardin. Go channel three.” 

The call surprised Jaune. Other than routine radio checks, Cardin had said nothing to him, not that Jaune expected him to. He switched radio frequencies. “Jaune here. Reading you five by.”

“Cool. Jaune,” Cardin said in a friendly tone, “let’s do this the old fashioned way. My ’15 outclasses you in distance combat especially, and that’s not fair—especially for a 1V1 fight. Guns only. No missiles.” As Jaune looked over, he saw Cardin reach up over his instrument panel as if he was cocking two imaginary machine guns, the way they would have in World War I. 

“Sure. Thanks, Cardin.” 

“No prob, buddy. I’m already a Weapons School grad; I don’t have anything to prove. Like Goodwitch said, we’re all on the same side.” They returned to the main frequency.

“Jaune, Cardin, this is Range Control.” It was the voice of a controller on the ground beneath them, somewhere in the forest of northern Wisconsin. “You are cleared in for a 1V1 fight. Hard deck is 6000 feet AGL. No air traffic in your zone. You are to start head to head, but if at any time you lose sight of each other, you are to call ‘no joy’ and both aircraft will break off. You are not to approach to within 200 feet of each other for any reason. If either of you suffer any sort of mechanical failure, you are to call ‘knock it off,’ climb to 25,000 feet, and return to Beacon.” He acknowledged the order, as did Cardin. “Good luck, gentlemen. Cardin, you will come in from the north. Jaune, circle and maintain your current position.”

“Roger.” Jaune put his Mirage into a wide circle and watched as Cardin hit his afterburners. His F-15 shot forward and was soon just a dot on the horizon. Jaune took his eyes off Cardin for a moment to check his instrument panel and the position of the sun. He had an idea. 

“Jaune, Cardin…fight’s on,” the controller called. The duel had begun.

Jaune immediately slammed the throttle forward and climbed hard, putting himself upsun. A quick check of his radar, then of the horizon. _There he is!_ The F-15 made a big target as it turned to engage, its gray camouflage now working against it as it was visible against Lake Superior. Jaune eased back on the throttle, rolled level, and prepared to dive. He would be almost invisible against the sun: while Cardin was vainly trying to pick up the Mirage, Jaune would be past him in a quick gun pass. 

“Cardin, Fox Three.” 

Jaune was startled. _But…Fox Three is missiles! This is gun only—_

“That’s a kill. Jaune is a mort,” Range Control said. “Knock it off, Jaune and Cardin.” 

Jaune leveled off, more from muscle memory than because he was paying attention. A mort meant that, had this been real combat, his Mirage 2000 would have been blown apart by Cardin’s AMRAAM shot, and Jaune would likely be very dead— _mort_ in French. 

Cardin flew up alongside Jaune. Jaune did not bother changing frequencies. “Cardin, what the hell? You said guns only!”

“Shit, Jaune, I’m sorry,” Cardin said. “Just instinct. My fault. Range Control, Cardin, can we set up for another run? I kind of lost my head there.”

There was a pause. “Sure, Cardin. Reverse positions—Jaune is in from the north.”

“Roger that.” Jaune angrily accelerated his Mirage to the north, and made a punishing seven-G turn to get into position. He calmed himself down. _Take it easy, Jaune. We’re used to taking missile shots. Cardin probably got all excited. It happens to the best of us._

“Fight’s on,” Range Control called out. This time, Jaune remained straight and level, but once more went into afterburner, going straight at Cardin in a fangs-out, scream and leap offensive designed to rattle the American pilot. 

“Cardin, Fox Three.”

“What the _fuck?”_ Jaune screamed in French.

“Cardin has the kill. Jaune is a mort,” Range Control sighed. “Knock it off, Jaune and Cardin.” There was a pause. “Both of you are instructed to RTB. Cardin, you will return visually, at your discretion. Jaune, you will fly instruments on the way back.” Jaune gritted his teeth. He’d heard about this tradition at Beacon. Losers were forced to fly slow and on instruments on the way back as punishment for losing a fight. It meant that the winner would be on the ground for at least five minutes before the loser, giving the winner enough time to start bragging. And he had no doubt that Cardin would be doing a lot of bragging.

“Cardin, Jaune. That was twice,” he growled to the other pilot. “I trusted you!”

“Trust is down, kill ratio is up, Jaunie-boy. See you later.” Cardin waved at him, engaged his afterburners, and was gone.

_Building 10313 (Officers’ Mess)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_14 April 2001_

“And there I was,” Nora Valkyrie said, dropping her voice dramatically as she leaned over the lunch table. “Sitting right at the hard deck at six thousand feet. Above me? There was Sky Lark, in his Hawk 200! Little plane with a bite, the maneuverability of a Hawk trainer, the radar of a F-16! He far outclasses me!” She broke off to slam back half a can of soda. “So I radioed him. I said, ‘Lieutenant Lark of the Royal Malaysian Air Force! If you have the courage of your ancestors, you will come down and fight me like a man!’ And he replied, ‘I shall not, gallant antagonist, Lieutenant Nora Valkyrie of the great United States Air Force! Instead, you must duel me, ere in the fashion of the knights of yore!’”

All eyes of Ruby Flight went to Lie Ren, sitting next to her—even Blake, who peered at him over her book. He shook his head. “That is not what happened.”

Nora rounded on him with a fork. “It _is_ what happened!”

“No, it’s not,” Ren insisted. “You said, and I quote, ‘If you got any balls, Lark, come on down!’ And he said, ‘I’m not stupid, Nora, you’ve got that damned thirty millimeter! You come up here!’ And you two did that for half an hour until Range Control told you to knock it off and RTB.” He turned back to Ruby Flight. “And she still kept trying to get behind him on the way back to Beacon. That poor man will be having nightmares of Nora’s gun filling his rearview mirrors.”

Nora shrugged. “That’s what he gets for calling my airplane ugly!”

Yang laughed. “So that’s what you were doing. The range computer back in the auditorium had no idea what was going on. We saw Pyrrha win.”

“That was cool,” Ruby gushed. 

Pyrrha folded her hands over her plate. “It wasn’t that difficult. Russel is somewhat new to the F-16. He was trying to fight me in the horizontal plane. Easy mistake for somewhat inexperienced pilots. So I went into the vertical, and that was that.”

Weiss motioned at Ren. “And you, Ren? How was Captain Bronzewing?”

Ren nodded. “Quite good. You probably saw the fight. We got into a vertical scissors. He forgot that my stall speed is lower, I forced him out in front, and, as Pyrrha said, that was that. But he’s quite the skilled opponent. I would not underestimate him.”

The table went quiet after that. Neither Juniper nor Ruby Flight wanted to look at Jaune, who was picking at his salad. Finally, he broke the silence. “I got smoked. I think that’s the American term.” He put down his fork. “Twice.”

Ruby reached across and put her hand on his wrist. “It’s okay, Jaune. It happens to everyone, right? No one _always_ wins these simulated fights—that’s kind of the point. We’re learning.”

Pyrrha regarded him. “Jaune, did you talk to Colonel Goodwitch?”

“I did. She said ‘Cardin did not break the rules. There are no rules in air combat. You naively believed him and deserved what you got.” Jaune put his head in his hands. “And you know something? She’s right.”

Blake returned to her book. “Lie, cheat and steal in the cockpit. Leave chivalry at home in your locker with your dress blues.” Weiss gave her a dirty look, and Blake gave one right back. “I’m not wrong, Weiss. Up there, chivalry will get you killed.”

Ren wore an amused expression. “No knights of the air, Blake?”

“No,” Blake replied. “There never were knights of the air. Manfred von Richthofen once said that nine out of ten of the 80 men he shot down never saw him coming. I believe he referred to himself as a murderer. Which is what _we_ are. The sooner we realize it, the better fighters we become.”

Weiss continued to stare daggers at her, while Ruby was shocked. Yang just chuckled. “Well, aren’t you just the cheerful son of a bitch, though?”

Blake set her book down, but if she was going to laugh with Yang or attack her would never be known, as the table was distracted by one Cardin Winchester and his latest target—once more Velvet Scarlatina. He sat next to her, too close. “Hey, silly wabbit,” they heard him say, not quite in a whisper.

“Leave me alone,” she snapped.

“Aw, come on,” Cardin grinned. “I’m not going to hurt you, wabbit. Just want to see if you’ve got a cotton tail to go with those ears.” He leered at her. 

“If you don’t stop it—“ Velvet began.

Cardin’s flirting demeanor suddenly disappeared. “You’ll do _what?”_ he said, raising his voice enough to turn heads. “You’re alone in here, wabbit. There aren’t any other Faunus around to save your bunny ass.”

“That does it.” Blake stood, walked across the table, and jumped down next to Velvet. “Captain Winchester, shut your mouth or I will do it for you.”

He stabbed a finger at her. “You stay out of this, jarhead! This is between me and the bunny.”

“Now it’s between me and you,” Blake warned.

Cardin took a step forward. “You like Faunus, jarhead? Yeah, I bet you do, with those yellow eyes of yours. You a Faunus, Belladonna? Where’s your tail?”

Blake turned, repositioning her feet, slightly raising her hands, presenting a smaller target. “You want to go, zoomie?”

The rest of Cardinal Flight, who had been sitting at a nearby table, stood up and walked over. “There a problem here?” Bronzewing asked. “I don’t think you want to fight all of us, Belladonna.”

Now Ruby Flight was on its feet. Weiss went around the table and was quickly joined by Ruby, but Yang leapt across the table. All three of them stood behind Blake now. “You mess with one of us, you scramble with _all_ of us, fuckwit!” Ruby shouted. Blake looked back at her, astounded at the sudden profanity. Somehow it seemed wrong for Ruby to curse.

“We can take you girls.” Cardin’s fists were clenched.

Ren took up position next to Yang. “I’m not a girl, Captain. Perhaps you would like to reconsider?” The rest of Juniper Flight—except for Jaune—was on their feet. Other flights were also standing up, though more to watch than get involved.

“Attention on deck!” someone called out. Automatically, everyone in the room came to attention. Glynda Goodwitch strode over to the table. “What is going on here?” she demanded.

“Ma’am.” It was Weiss that spoke. “Captain Winchester here made some racial comments towards Flight Officer Scarlatina. We decided to inform the Captain of his mistake and give him a chance to apologize.”

“Is that what happened?” Goodwitch turned to Velvet, who had ended up at the end of the table opposite from where she had been. 

Velvet fixed Cardin with a stare filled with hate. “Yes.” 

“Very well. Captain Winchester, Flight Officer Scarlatina, to my office. Now.” She pointed to the door. Scarlatina, with one last murderous look towards Cardin, marched out. Cardin followed a moment later. Goodwitch nodded to the rest of them. “Captain Ozpin and I handle the administrative punishments around here, ladies and gentlemen. Am I clear?” A chorus of “yes, ma’am”s answered her. “Good. Return to your duties. Most of you have class in five minutes.” Goodwitch left.

The room gradually quieted. Cardinal and Ruby Flights watched each other for a moment. “Too bad,” Yang smirked. “I was hoping we’d have a topless volleyball match to settle it.”

It broke the tension, and everyone laughed. Bronzewing flexed. “Anytime, Yang Xiao Long. Name the sand pit and we’ll be there. Especially if you’re serious about the topless part.”

The three flights drifted apart. Ruby abruptly remembered Goodwitch’s remarks about class, and trays and silverware were rapidly cleared up as they headed for the exit. Only Pyrrha noticed that Jaune still sat at the table, alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incidentally, the dogfight between Cardin and Jaune in this chapter did actually happen at Top Gun back in the 80s. The instigator was the infamous "Hoser" Satrapa, he of the taking so many personal weapons into combat his F-8 had to leave ordnance behind. Hoser later became a legendary Top Gun instructor (Jester of Top Gun was based loosely on him), and was nearly retired from the Navy when his homemade 20mm hunting rifle (!) blew his thumb off.


	14. Under the Milky Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pyrrha meets Jaune on the Base Quad, where Jaune confesses his secret: he has no business being at Beacon. But Pyrrha has secrets too, and someone just might have overheard them...

_Base Quad_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_14 April 2001_

Jaune Arc stared at the distant runway. The sun had set an hour before, but the night was alive with noise. Coffee Flight and Sake Flight were getting some nightfighting training in. As Wing Commander Port had pointed out in the afternoon class, the GRIMM weren’t always so kind as to attack during the day, and air pirates loved the night. As he watched, Coco Adel’s Mirage F.1 roared into the darkness, trailing purple flame from the afterburner. 

“Jaune?” 

He turned to find Pyrrha there. She wore civilian clothes; it occurred to Jaune that he had never seen her out of a flight suit or uniform. “Oh, hello, Pyrrha.”

She walked next to him. “Any more openings in Jaune Flight?”

He laughed softly. “I’m sorry about what I said that day. I was just trying to impress Weiss. And you,” he added. 

“You weren’t in class today.” 

“Was Port angry?”

“I told him you weren’t feeling well. Nora and Ren backed me up.”

“Yeah. The flight sticks together. You mess with one of us, you scramble with all of us,” Jaune quoted bitterly. “Except I didn’t do that today. I should’ve jumped up with you and Ruby Flight. Hell, I should’ve been the first one out of my seat.”

Pyrrha hugged herself and wished she had brought a jacket. Wisconsin’s evenings were still cold in mid-April, and she was not exactly from a cold climate. “It’s all right.”

“It’s _not_ all right!” Jaune suddenly yelled, though the words were drowned out by the roar of a Panavia Tornado taking off—Velvet and Fox Alasdair’s aircraft. When the roar had faded to a rumble, he sat down on a bench. “It’s not all right,” he repeated. “I don’t belong here.”

Pyrrha frowned down on him. “Now _that’s_ not all right. You were selected to come here. You heard what Captain Ozpin said the first day we were here.”

“I wasn’t selected.” Jaune’s voice was so quiet Pyrrha wasn’t sure she had heard him. 

“Then why—“

Jaune shrugged. “I might as well tell you. Ozpin and Goodwitch are going to find out sooner or later; I might as well get it over with.” He forced to meet her eyes. “Pyrrha, I’m not…I’m not a fighter pilot. Not per se.”

She sat next to him. “I don’t understand.”

“I’ve flown the Mirage 2000, yes. But I’m a ferry pilot.” He laughed without humor. “My job is to fly the planes from the Dassault factory to bases. All over—Lebanon, Algeria, Djibouti, and in France, of course. I’ve been to Greece, too—that’s where I saw you once, from a distance. When I’m not ferrying aircraft, I tow targets for other pilots. But the other day? That was the first time I’ve ever been in combat.” He scratched the back of his head and gave Pyrrha a wan smile. “Didn’t wet the seat, though. I guess I must have some talent.”

“Then how did you get here?”

Jaune sighed. “And here’s where I get court-martialed. Oh well.” He leaned back on the bench. “I’m also good with computers. Really good. I hacked into the air force computers and changed my orders. Next thing I know, I’m on my way to Vytal Flag, just like I’ve always wanted. I was so nervous when I got here that I had a panic attack. I had to declare an inflight emergency. I made up a bullcrap story about a glitch in the Mirage.” He shook his head. “It was fun while it lasted, Pyrrha. After the fight with the Death Stalker, I thought maybe it was okay, that I had that edge. Then today Cardin played an easy trick on me, twice, and I fell for it.”

“He’s atrocious,” Pyrrha growled. “I understand Colonel Goodwitch told him that the next time he screws up, he’s out.”

“Well, score one for Goodwitch. But I’m out too, Pyrrha. Before I get someone killed trying to defend my useless ass. I’ll come clean to Ozpin. Maybe I can avoid jail.” He let out a breath that steamed in the cool air. “I have a sister who runs a vineyard in Provence. She can always use a hand.”

There was silence for a few minutes. “I’ll help you,” Pyrrha said at length.

“No.”

She grabbed his shoulder and shook him. “I mean it. Jaune, you _have_ talent. Yes, Cardin played you a dirty trick today, but that was one mission! If you were useless, you would have died fighting that Death Stalker.” She turned away from him. “At least you didn’t freeze, like I did.”

“Just no, Pyrrha.” Jaune’s voice was firm. “I appreciate it. I really do. But I don’t want help.” He stood up and dusted off the seat of his britches. “I wanted to be a hero. You know who I was named for, right?”

She nodded. “Jeanne d’Arc. Joan of Arc.”

“France’s greatest heroine. My family is actually distantly related to her—enough that we’ve served France for centuries. My great-grandfather lost a leg at Verdun. My grandfather flew fighters with the Russians after France was overrun by the Germans.” Jaune chuckled. “He probably shot down Weiss’ grandfather. Anyway, he died at Dien Bien Phu, trying to run in supplies for the Legionnaires. My father died fighting the GRIMM invasion of the Low Countries. The Arcs have always served France. And here I was, towing fucking targets.” He felt the anger and frustration build. 

Pyrrha stood as well. She took two steps forward until they were face to face; she was not that much shorter than he was. Jaune wasn’t sure if Pyrrha was going to kiss him or punch him. In the end, she did neither. “I will not accept that, Jaune. Do you want to know a secret? _My_ secret? Why I didn’t want command of the flight?” Before he could agree one way or the other, she continued. “I lost my whole squadron over Crete, Jaune. I was the only one who came back. I was hailed as a hero, as the only Greek pilot to ever score ten kills in a single day. But it came at the price of _everyone_ I knew and loved. And…I did things. Things I’m not very proud of.” She turned away again, but not before he saw the emotion on her face. “I still can’t talk about that. But that’s my deep dark secret.” She poked him, hard. “So now we’re even. I’m not going to tell Ozpin or anyone else about you. I _am_ going to help you become the hero you want to be. And I’m not going to take no for an answer.”

“But why? Why me?”

She stepped back. “All right, you cheated your way in here. But you _are_ here. You walk into Ozpin’s office and confess, and you will indeed be the coward you think you are. You stay and learn, and you will make your family proud.” She shivered again. “It’s too damned cold out here, so I’m going in. I expect to see you in the morning, Jaune. And if I don’t, I will hunt you down.” Without another word, Pyrrha turned and walked towards the female officers’ quarters. He could see her shoulders shaking, and not entirely with cold.

Jaune stood there, torn between following her and continuing to stare at the flightline. He was suddenly seized with a strong desire to put his arm around those shoulders. Then a voice stopped him. “Oh, Jaune…”

He turned to see a figure walk around from behind a wide tree. “I couldn’t help but overhear you two from behind the tree. So you sneaked into Beacon, huh? I have to say, Jaune, I never expected you to be such a rebel.”

“Weiss?” Jaune felt his jaw drop as the German girl walked into the amber light of the streetlamp. He put his hands up. “Please, Weiss, _please_ don’t tell anyone!”

Weiss put a hand between her breasts in a show of shock. “Me? Tell anyone? Please, Jaune, I would not rat out a friend.” She walked closer to him. “Your secret is safe with me, Jaune.”

“That’s good—“

“As long as you help me.” Weiss smiled prettily up at him, and thoughts of Pyrrha’s shoulders fled. “You said you’re good with computers.”

“Er, yes—“

“Good. Then I won’t tell a soul about your little stunt with the computers to get here, so long as you can do it again.”

“What?” Jaune felt he was now truly in over his head.

“Yes, Jaune of Arc. I need you to hack into Beacon’s computers.” Weiss’ smile had faded. “I want you to help me find everything we can on Blake Belladonna.” 


	15. For Whom the Bell Tolls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruby Flight is pitted against Cardinal Flight for Hop Three, and Ruby wants revenge on Cardin for what he did to Jaune. That may be secondary to the future of Ruby Flight, however, as Jaune has uncovered the truth about Blake's past for Weiss. Blake Belladonna is not who she appears to be...

_Building 91213 (Female Officers’ Quarters)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_15 April 2001_

The warning klaxon penetrated Weiss Schnee’s brain a second before Ruby’s scream. _“Active air scramble!”_

Weiss sat up instantly, and just as instantly cracked her skull on the bottom of Ruby’s jury-rigged bed. She collapsed back to the pillow with a flood of horrible German curses. She tried to roll out of bed while holding a head that was suddenly filled with dwarf miners armed with dynamite, only to be hit in the face with a pair of rose-decorated pajama bottoms. Finally, Weiss made it to the floor, knees first, and angrily threw the pajamas out the window. 

“C’mon, Weiss!” Ruby was already zipping up her flight suit. Weiss shakily stood and was hit in the face again, this time with her own flight suit. She snatched it off her head; it had been thrown by Blake, who was pulling on her own flight suit. The bathroom door burst open as Yang ran out, tossing her towel; this time, Weiss was able to avoid getting hit in the head a fourth time. Naked and with her hair streaked with shampoo, Yang grabbed her flight suit out of the closet, fell to the carpet, and began writhing into the flight suit. With another oath, Weiss stripped off her nightdress and pulled on hers. 

They piled out of the room and headed for the stairs, Ruby bouncing on one foot as she tried to pull on a boot and run at the same time; Weiss continued to curse as one of her arms got stuck; Yang added her curses to Weiss’ as she finally got the flight suit over her chest, only for shampoo to stream into her eyes. Only Blake seemed to be ready to go: Weiss noted with disgust that Blake’s bow was perfectly tied atop her head. Ruby Flight half-fell down the staircase behind Pyrrha and Nora: Weiss saw that Pyrrha’s hair looked like Medusa’s, while Nora had put her flight suit on backwards. 

Somehow, they all reached the front door, where a converted bread truck painted USAF blue squealed to a halt on the sidewalk. Ren and Jaune helped pull and push the girls into the back as it raced off. It took only two minutes to reach the flightline, and it barely slowed down for each pilot to jump off the back when they passed the hardstand for their aircraft. Crew chiefs and ground crew were waiting with helmets; as the pilots ran for their aircraft, they could see the ordnance people frantically loading missiles and gun ammunition. 

Just as Ruby settled into the cockpit of _Crescent Rose,_ the loudspeakers clustered around each hardstand came to life with a screech. “Attention, attention, all personnel. This is a drill, this is a drill. Stand down from scramble. Ground crews, offload and secure all ammunition. Pilots, report to Auditorium A.”

Ruby blew out a breath. “Just a drill.” She willed her heart to stop pounding. Air pirates never attacked military bases—at least not in North America—but GRIMM were known to do so on occasion. It was far more common out west, where the bases butted up against the Dead Zones. She accepted a hand out of the cockpit by her crew chief, who looked as relieved as she felt. It made sense: where Ruby could at least defend herself once in the air, the ground crew could only hope they could get to shelters in time, and those shelters weren’t always bombproof.

She rejoined Yang and the others as the bread truck came back to pick them up and deposit them at Auditorium A. The jokes began as the pilots let off steam. 

“Bad hair day?” Yang grinned at Pyrrha.

“Look who’s talking.” Pyrrha pointed at Yang’s hair. “Is that shampoo?”

“Yeah, I was in the shower. Got suds everywhere.”

“’Suds’ Xiao Long.” Blake’s mouth twitched into a smile. The entire truck burst into laughter. 

“Suds, break left!” Nora howled.

“Suds, Fox Three!” Ruby collapsed onto the floor of the van, her legs in the air.

Even Blake’s reserve cracked, and she let out a girlish giggle. “There you go. Your new callsign.”

Yang rolled her eyes. “Oh, give me a blake.” 

That struck Weiss as uproariously funny. She was bent over at the waist, nearly screaming in mirth. Jaune saw his chance and leaned over. “Weiss, do you want to meet for dinner?” he said, quietly. It wasn’t quiet enough—both Blake’s and Pyrrha’s heads turned at that—but most of the rest of the truck didn’t notice. Still laughing, she nodded quickly. Jaune leaned back on the bench, a very satisfied smile on his face. Pyrrha’s laughter faded, and though she kept smiling, it was an artificial one.

Ren noticed Pyrrha’s expression, and decided to change the subject a little. “Weiss, how did you get that scar?” he asked as the truck pulled to a stop. 

Weiss wiped a tear from her eye, and pointed to the scar over her left eye. “Oh, this? Heroically fighting off the last person to ask me for a date.”

“Whoa, he was aggressive!” Nora tittered. She accepted Ren’s help out of the back of the truck. 

“No, actually…it was in training. I slipped getting out of my Typhoon and struck my face on the canopy rim.”

Yang’s eyes widened. “Oh God! That sounds like that would hurt like a son of a bitch.”

“It certainly did!” Weiss tossed her hair back. She had not had time to do it up in a bun, and her hair fell to the small of her back. It also stood out at odd angles. “Worse than hitting my head on Ruby’s bed this morning.”

Ruby let out another peal of laughter. “That was funny!”

Weiss gave her a playful shove. “Not to me it wasn’t, you little shit!” 

“’Scar’ Schnee.” Blake struck a thoughtful pose. “Maybe that should be _your_ new callsign.”

Weiss gave it a moment’s thought. “It does sort of roll off the tongue. ‘Scar’…I kind of like that.”

They filed into the auditorium, still snickering and giggling. The other flights looked equally dishelved, and the good-natured joking continued. Cardinal Flight was noticeably left out. The laughter did not stop until Goodwitch, as usual dressed impeccably in her blue uniform, called them to attention. After they had sat, she nodded. “Good to see you’re all awake.” A chorus of groans and boos greeted that. “You did well. Aircraft were manned in ten minutes. We need to cut that down to seven, so expect to have more scramble drills. Flights will also start standing alert five readiness, which will begin tomorrow night.” She saw Yang’s hand go up. “Yes, Captain Long?”

“Suds!” Ruby yelled out.

“Colonel, can we have a 15-minute break to get cleaned up? A lot of us aren’t really in uniform here.”

Goodwitch shrugged. “Such things are normal in scramble situations, and some of you will be flying this afternoon.”

“Yes, ma’am, but, well…I don’t have a stitch on underneath this flight suit.” Every eye in the auditorium suddenly locked on Yang (except for Ren’s, because Nora grabbed his head). “And it’s a bit nippy in this room, if you get my drift.” 

Goodwitch’s eye twitched, and everyone could see that she was actually fighting off a laugh herself. “All right, Captain Long—20 minutes for anyone who needs to change. Bad hair days qualify.”

Half the auditorium left, and were back in the alloted time—Nora with her flight suit on properly, Pyrrha and Weiss with their hair done up normally, and Yang with what Ruby hoped was some underwear on and her hair freshly combed. Goodwitch had spent the time looking terribly bored behind the podium, but perked up once everyone returned. “Good. Now that we are all settled, it is time for today’s mission. This will be Hop Four, and will be another 1V1 mission over the Yooper Range.” She clicked the remote, the lights dimmed, and the slide came up.

_Russel Thrush (CRDL) (F-16C) vs. Weiss Schnee (RWBY) (Typhoon)_

_Dove Bronzewing (CRDL) (CF-18A) vs. Yang Xiao Long (RWBY) (F-15SE)_

_Sky Lark (CRDL) (Hawk 200) vs. Blake Belladonna (RWBY) (F-14GS)_

_Cardin Winchester (CRDL) (F-15C) vs. Ruby Rose (RWBY) (F-16A)_

“Now some of these may look like considerable mismatches,” Goodwitch said. “Sometimes you get the luck of the draw, and sometimes you do not. However, none of these should be considered a given. There is no such thing in air combat. We learned that in the skies over Cuba, over Vietnam, over China. The Hawk 200 may seem to have a considerable disadvantage to the F-14, but it is smaller, more agile, and harder to see. Remember to fight to the strengths of your aircraft, not to your opponent’s.” 

Ruby wrote down navigational coordinates, safe bailout zones, and other assorted information she needed, but she was in automatic mode: her mind was already going over the coming dogfight. _Yeah, that’s a mismatch for me, all right,_ she thought. _The F-15 has me in reach, and I bet Cardin’s got the newer radar, which means no Cuban Turns for me._ The Cuban Turn was a nickname for a sudden horizontal turn that would cause older radars to suddenly lose lock. Older F-15s were vulnerable to it; newer ones were not. _He’s got me in speed and altitude too. I got him close in, but technically Jaune did too, and Cardin ate him up. Yeah, the bastard sort of cheated, but he’s still good. Hmm. C’mon, Ruby, how do you beat this guy?_

She was still thinking it over as she left the auditorium, collected her flight gear, and rode the truck back out to the flightline. Ruby only snapped out of it when she saw that _Crescent Rose_ had been parked across the taxiway from Cardin’s F-15. His aircraft carried a bronze mace painted under the cockpit, but no name. As she pulled on her helmet, Ruby locked eyes with the big pilot. He had obviously been on his best behavior since getting chewed out by Goodwitch the day before, but now he made a throat-cutting gesture to her. Cardin did not smile. Evidently he knew that Ruby would not fall for the same “friendly” trick Jaune had. 

After preflighting _Crescent Rose,_ Ruby climbed in and the crew chief helped her strap in. Once the canopy was closed, the outside world was closed off too. Ruby felt like she was home, as if when she was on the ground she was merely visiting. A ground crewman pulled the chocks from the wheels, and another gave her a splayed-hand “stop” gesture. Cardin taxied out first, sparing her a murderous glance as he turned onto the taxiway. Once the F-15 was clear, her ground crew motioned her out of the hardstand, directed her onto the taxiway, and snapped off a dazzling salute. Ruby returned the salute just as sharply, and turned to follow Cardin.

“Cardin, you are number one for takeoff on Runway 03 Right,” Beacon Tower informed them. “Ruby, you are number two on Runway 03 Left. Check in with Beacon Approach after takeoff. Good luck.” 

“Roger that,” Cardin said in a half-growl.

“Roger,” Ruby repeated. 

The F-15’s afterburners lit with a roar that shook Ruby’s F-16, even though it was on a parallel runway. It accelerated quickly and was off the runway halfway down, the landing gear quickly cycling up. Cardin executed a gentle climb and turn north towards the range. Once he was clear, Ruby pushed the throttle past the detent and her own afterburner lit off. She let off the brakes and over 23,000 pounds of thrust pressed her back in her seat. Armed with only the range instrumentation pod and an inert Sidewinder practice round, the F-16 was remarkably light and she was in the air in seconds. She raised the landing gear and stayed in afterburner as she made a hard turn to fall into trail with Cardin. Ruby was about to make a slight drift to the right to take up position on the F-15’s wing when she suddenly had a devilish idea. 

She let her afterburner go another second, then throttled back. Cardin had as well, and within half a minute, she was a mile directly behind him. She switched her HUD to air-to-air mode, got a lock, and spoke clearly. “Ruby, Fox Two on the F-15.”

There was a pause, then Beacon Tower’s controller cleared his throat. “Er…that’s a kill, I think.”

“ _What?”_ Cardin yelled. He made a hard left break, but Ruby stayed with him. She was about to make another Fox call when a new voice came over the radio net, the range controller back at Beacon. “Kill confirmed. Cardin is a mort.” 

“You little shit!” Cardin pulled the turn tighter, but this was the kind of fight the F-16 excelled in, and Ruby remained where she was. “I’m gonna kill you!”

“Cardin, Ruby, knock it off.” Goodwitch’s voice was now on the frequency. “Ruby, return visually at discretion. Cardin, orbit until cleared, and return on instruments.”

Ruby couldn’t resist. “Hey, Cardin. Trust is down, kill ratio is up.” She waggled her wings at him as she flew past and returned to Beacon. 

_The Wienerschnitzel_

_Tomah, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_15 April 2001_

“Shortest kill in Vytal Flag history,” Weiss crowed. She leaned back in her chair, happy and proud of Ruby Flight. “Cardin complained about it, but Goodwitch upheld the kill on the basis that everywhere is a war zone. Ruby got some revenge for you, Jaune.”

Jaune nodded, satisfied. In fact, he was satisfied in more than one way. Not only had Cardin gotten his comeuppance—and because of Goodwitch’s warning, he could not take out his frustrations on anyone without immediate dismissal—but he, Jaune Arc, was on a date with Weiss Schnee. He had checked out a vehicle from Beacon’s motor pool and drove Weiss to the nearest town to the base, Tomah. Jaune made sure to be on time, and to dress well: he wore civilian clothes, fashionable slacks and a white vest over his shirt. He had bought all of it from the base exchange as soon as Hop Four concluded for the day. Unfortunately, Weiss was not in the spirit of the date: she had on modest knee-length dress and a simple shirt. Still, she was there, in a chair, opposite from him, so Jaune considered it a win.

Their food arrived. Jaune was careful to find the only German restaurant in town. Weiss exclaimed happily over the jaegerschnitzel she ordered and dug in; prim and proper she might be, but Jaune had already noticed the German girl’s big appetite. 

Once she had put away the first half of the jaegerschnitzel, Weiss looked over her plate at Jaune, who was slicing into his bratwurst. “This isn’t a date, you know.”

Jaune paused with a knifeful of brat halfway to his mouth. “Sure, I know.” It deflated him a little.

“So, what did you find?”

“How did your mission against Russel go?” Jaune wasn’t quite ready to get to the meat of the moment, as it were.

“I smoked him.” It had not been as easy as that, Weiss thought to herself, but she had remembered Pyrrha’s advice that Russel had a tendency to not think in three dimensions. The American had given her a run for a minute or two, but one break too late and she had him. “Now tell me what you found, Jaune. I mean it.”

He heard the threat in her voice. “All right,” he sighed. The other reason he had chosen this restaurant was the low chance of running into any of the other pilots at Beacon. Most of the pilots looking for a little fun drove the extra few miles to Wisconsin Dells, or hit the college scene in Madison. “I didn’t put anything down to paper.” Weiss nodded, understanding the need for secrecy—or a paper trail, since technically both she and Jaune had just broken several American laws. As an added measure of security, they had been speaking French since they had placed their orders.

“So…Blake Belladonna. Born in 1977 in Great Britain.” Weiss’ eyebrows went up at that. “Emigrated to the USC at a young age, went to college at Kansas State University. Joined the US Marine Corps right out of college in 1998. Served a year in a line unit at Beaufort before being assigned to VX-4 at Patuxent River—the US Navy’s air testing establishment. Then she came here to Beacon.”

Weiss had devoured another third of her jaegerschnitzel while she listened. “That doesn’t tell us much,” she commented after Jaune had finished. “She doesn’t have a British accent, but if she hasn’t lived there since she was a child, she wouldn’t have one.” She leaned back in her chair and did some mental math. “Only three years in college, but Blake’s certainly studious, so that’s not surprising. I suppose that would mean she’s very good, and she’s certainly shown that.” Weiss half-smiled. “After all that talk of Goodwitch’s about mismatches not mattering, Blake blasted Sky Lark out of the sky within the first minute of ‘fight’s on.’” She shrugged. “Oh well. If that’s all…”

“It’s not,” Jaune told her. “I did some digging. Kansas State put its yearbooks online last year. There’s no picture or listing of Blake Belladonna.”

“Go on.”

“There’s also no listing of her in the base directory at Beaufort. _Or_ at Pax River. I mean, she was certainly there—she didn’t steal the _Gambol Shroud_ —but if she was, it was under a different name. All the stuff I told you was in Beacon’s records, but it isn’t in anyone else’s. It’s like Blake just appeared here as a fully grown US Marine Corps lieutenant.”

“So it might not even be her real name.” Weiss leaned her head on her hand in thought. “Why would Blake have an assumed name?” Weiss answered her own question. “Because she’s hiding from someone, or someone’s hiding her.”

“There’s one other thing.” Jaune nibbled at his bratwurst, but his appetite wasn’t as strong as he thought. This whole thing felt wrong, but it was either this or working in a vineyard. “I thought the British might have birth records online that I could look up. Well, I couldn’t find those, but I went on Ask Jeeves to look up any Belladonnas in history.”

“It means ‘fair lady’ in Italian…besides being another word for deadly nightshade poison. Yes, I speak Italian too, Jaune.”

To her surprise, Jaune ignored Weiss’ brag. “There were only two Belladonnas I could find. Joey Belladonna, the lead singer of Anthrax—“

“Who?” Weiss raised her glass of beer. She wasn’t much of a drinker, but there was no way she was going to enjoy jaegerschnitzel without a cold glass of Loewenbrau.

“—and Ghira Belladonna…the current President of Menagerie and the former High Leader of the White Fang.”

Weiss nearly spit her beer all over Jaune. She barely got it down and had a coughing fit in the process. Once she had caught her breath, she stared at Jaune, eyes wide. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah. And I found a picture of Ghira too—a color one, one with his wife.” Jaune couldn’t meet her eyes. “If they’re not Blake’s parents, Weiss, I’ll give you next month’s salary. She’s a dead ringer for her mother, minus the ears…but not the yellow eyes.”

“My God.” Weiss regarded her plate for a moment. “No wonder they’re hiding her—whoever ‘they’ are. Who would think to look for the heir to the White Fang at an American airbase? Weird that they didn’t give her a different name, though. Maybe they thought no one would make the connection.” She nodded again, this time to herself. “That means Cardin was right. Blake’s a Faunus. Explains the yellow eyes, and…” Weiss blinked. “…and the bow…”

Jaune chewed his bottom lip nervously. “So what are you going to do?”

“Confront Blake.”

“Why?”

Weiss paused at that. It was a good question, and one that had been hanging out in the back of her mind for days. So what if Blake was Faunus? Velvet Scarlatina was Faunus, and Weiss had been prepared to fight for her, physically, the day before. Of course, that was more because Cardin Winchester was an arrogant ass than any particular like for Velvet. Nonetheless, Weiss had to ask herself the why of the matter, and she did not like the answer she came up with. 

“Are you going to get her thrown out of Beacon?” Jaune steeled himself, and spoke clearly, if quickly. “Because you’re going to have to throw me out with her.”

Weiss fixed him with an icy stare. Jaune would never know that it was an act; Weiss Schnee had long ago learned to disguise her real emotions. “Why is that?”

“She’s a good person, Weiss. And a good pilot.”

“How do you know she’s a good person?”

That took the wind from Jaune’s sails. “Well…because she’s…she’s always been nice to me,” he said lamely.

Weiss motioned for the waiter. “Get a box for your bratwurst, Jaune. I’m going to find out if she’s a nice person. I’ll leave you out of it. You kept your end of the bargain, and I’ll keep mine.” As Jaune reached for his wallet, Weiss threw a credit card on the table. “This isn’t a date, Jaune. I’ll pay for it. After all, I’m a heiress.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had the idea for the scramble scene ever since I saw Ruby's Rube Goldberg bed setup. The story of "Suds" is based on a real incident at Bitburg back in the early 1980s (though the pilot was male). Poor Yang, always ending up naked in my stories. 
> 
> And yes, Joey Belladonna really *was* the lead singer of Anthrax. Amazing what you find on Wikipedia.


	16. Fallen Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weiss confronts Blake: she knows she's a Faunus and the daughter of the Belladonnas. 
> 
> Is this the end of Ruby Flight, or can Weiss and Blake find common ground?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the toughest chapters to write of "On RWBY Wings." The confrontation between Blake and Weiss happened much later in the show, but that always mystified me. Why did it take so long for Team RWBY to figure out who Blake really was? In this story, the stakes are a bit higher.
> 
> Couldn't resist a RWBY Chibi reference. There needs to be a Season 4.

_Building 91213 (Female Officers’ Quarters)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_15 April 2001_

Pyrrha Nikos watched from the window of the room she shared with Nora Valkyrie. On the walk below them, she saw Jaune walking Weiss up the sidewalk to the female officers’ quarters. They paused at the entrance, then Weiss stood on tiptoe to kiss Jaune’s cheek. 

“Well, look at loverboy.” Pyrrha nearly jumped out of the window in surprise. Nora leaned on the wall next to her. “Guess someone showed the Ice Queen a good time tonight.”

Pyrrha turned away from the window. “Well,” she said, trying and failing to put a light tone in her voice, “good for him. The poor man needed a break.”

“Want me to break his legs?”

Pyrrha’s eyes went wide. “What? _No!_ Nora, that’s silly!” She plastered a smile on her face, which didn’t fool Nora in the slightest. “I’m happy for Jaune.”

“Uh huh.” Nora pointed at her left hand. “You gonna use that spoon for something?”

“I was having dinner—“ Pyrrha held up the metal spoon to her face. She had bent it in half.

Weiss had no knowledge of this, naturally, though the female half of Juniper Flight lived next door to Ruby Flight. As she reached their room’s door, Weiss paused. 

_Why do I want to do this?_ she asked herself. _If I go through with this, it could cause some real trouble for the flight. Yang might resent me for doing it, and Ruby…poor Ruby._ Weiss considered just turning around, walking across the quad to the male officers’ quarters, and telling Jaune to forget everything. _No,_ Weiss told herself, _the flight needs to know. Blake could have told us everything on the first night, when we all had dinner together, or back here. She at least could’ve told us she was a Faunus. Of course, then we would’ve made the connection between her and her father, but…still, she should have done it._ Weiss frowned. _It’s not like my father is a paragon of virtue, but I don’t hide who_ I _am. And what if Blake is a threat to Beacon? A threat to_ me?

Mind made up, Weiss opened the door.

Meanwhile, Blake Belladonna was in a near panic. Her hands were shaking, and much like Pyrrha, fought down an impulse to jump out the window. She looked under her pillow, under her bed, through the shelves of books, but it was gone. Out of the corner of one eye, Blake saw Ruby sitting up in bed, already in her pajamas, reading a book. A book with a black cover.

Ruby Rose was reading _Ninjas of Love_ , and if she hadn’t already found out that it was not about kamikazes nor World War II, soon would. 

Swallowing nervously, Blake took two steps towards Ruby’s bed. “R-Ruby,” she stammered, “is that my book?”

Ruby did not even look up from the book. “This is filth,” she said. “Filth.” She did not stop reading.

“Can I have it back?”

“Later.” 

Continued begging and assorted other acts unbecoming of an officer might have resulted, except that Weiss came through the door. It was not a dramatic entrance; Weiss merely walked in. Ruby barely spared the German girl a glance; Blake had a guilty expression on her face, which did not help Weiss’ mood any. Weiss saw that Yang was not present, which was just as well. What Weiss had to say might upset Yang, and Yang Xiao Long tended to punch things that upset her.

Weiss was careful to check that the door was fully shut behind her, then walked over and sat on her bed. Blake’s eyebrows beetled in confusion. “Weiss? Are you all right?”

“No.” Weiss surprised herself at how little she wanted to do this now. Once more, she fought down the urge to simply leave, but Blake was looking at her with concern, and so now was Ruby. She took a deep breath. “Blake, we need to talk. Now.”

“If this is because Blake reads smut…” Ruby said.

That surprised Weiss, but she resisted the urge to be distracted. “No. I wish it were as simple as that.” She forced herself to look Blake squarely in the eyes. “Blake, why didn’t you tell us you were a Faunus?”

Weiss’ timing was perfect. Blake was not expecting that question in the least. Given some warning, she might have been able to come up with something, to deflect Weiss, but an already nervous Blake had no defenses. Her yellow eyes widened, her face went pale, and her mouth dropped open. “I’m…I’m not…”

“You _are!_ ” Weiss snapped, suddenly angry. “Quit lying to us, Blake!”

“Weiss, stop!“ Ruby pushed aside _Ninjas of Love,_ jumped down from her bed, and stared at both of them.

“No, Ruby. I’m sorry, but the lies stop now.”

“She’s not…” Ruby’s voice trailed off as her eyes were drawn to Blake. Blake sat back on the bed, suddenly very small. The serene confidence that was her default expression was gone. Tears welled in her eyes, but she took a breath, composed herself, and slowly reached up to her bow. With a single movement, it was gone.

In its place were two black-furred ears, shading to white and pink on the inside.

Weiss, despite herself, recoiled from the sight. Ruby’s eyes were so round that Weiss detachedly worried that they might pop out of the girl’s head. Ruby let out a small gasp. “You’re…Blake…Weiss is telling the truth?”

Blake did not look up. “Yes, she is,” she whispered. The tears ran down her face to drip on her immaculate khaki pants. “I’m sorry.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Ruby asked. She reached out a hand to comfort Blake, but drew it back, unsure of what to do next. 

“I know why,” Weiss said. “And it brings me no pleasure to say it.” Once more, Weiss was surprised. In the car drive back from Tomah, she could think of little else but a triumphant revelation. She would expose Blake to the flight, get to the bottom of the Faunus girl’s lies, find out why the Marine was not a Marine. What would happen next was up to Blake, but Weiss had run through every scenario from a tearful begging of forgiveness to outright assault. But now she had the tears, and there was no feeling of triumph at all. Nevertheless, Weiss told herself, there was no turning back now. And she was still angry. “Blake Belladonna. The daughter of Ghira Belladonna, the chieftain of Menagerie…and the former head of the White Fang.”

Ruby seemed ready to faint. “But that’s…” Naturally, Ruby had heard of the White Fang—few humans had not. “Blake…?” Blake could only nod, the tears running down her face freely now. Ruby, her own eyes misty, turned to Weiss. “How did you know?”

“Never mind how I know.”

Ruby leaned back against the dresser. She knew she needed to get back in command, but like Blake, she was too shocked. “Weiss, why are you doing this? You’re not like Cardin, are you? You don’t hate Faunus too, do you?”

_Am I? Do I?_ Weiss asked herself. She stood, staring down at Blake. “Of course not. Cardin is a bigot. I’m not.” She rested her hands on her hips. “Though it’s a wonder I’m not.” At Ruby’s look of horror, Weiss rounded on her. “You don’t know what it’s like, Ruby. The White Fang have attacked my family directly. They have it in for all humans, but the Schnees in particular. They’ve attacked my company everywhere they can. They tried to assassinate my father, and my sister. Can you imagine having to have armed security for you everywhere you go? At school? At an ice rink? Because your father is afraid that the White Fang will try to kill you to get to him?” Weiss’ hands clenched into fists. Her brief feeling of sorrow for Blake now flipped back to anger. It was the ultimate betrayal: someone Weiss thought might be a friend was part of an organization who wanted her dead. “They’re all liars, thieves, murderers and psychopaths!” 

Suddenly Blake came off of her bed with enough speed that Weiss whirled to meet an attack and Ruby leaped backwards onto Weiss’ bed. Blake’s eyes blazed with yellow fire, her teeth were bared, and her ears were laid back—the latter the thing that frightened Ruby the most. “Shut your _fucking_ mouth, Weiss!” She visibly fought control of herself, and stabbed a finger towards the German girl. “You want to know why the White Fang hate the Schnees so much? Why they became so radical? It’s because your goddamn family _forced them to!”_ Blake forced herself to step back, though her shaking hands were still raised in case Weiss took a swing. She looked past Weiss, to Ruby. “Remember the other night when you two were talking about the Faunus, and I asked to hear about the parts where the Faunus were used during the war with the GRIMM? Since you’re in the mood to air someone’s dirty laundry, Weiss, maybe you should start with your own family!”

“I’m in no mood to hear your damned lies, Blake!” Weiss shouted.

“But I am.” Probably if Ruby had screamed the words, Weiss and Blake would have ignored her. It was said in such a quiet voice, into the angry silence, that it stopped both of the older girls. Ruby got to her feet and got between them. “I want to know.”

“Weiss was right when she said that Nicholas Schnee ‘made’ the Faunus. We didn’t ask to be born, but here we are.” Both Ruby and Weiss noticed that Blake was now using the word _we._ “Yes, Schnee got his army. Yes, the Faunus helped save Europe from being overrun by the GRIMM. But what Weiss didn’t mention is that we were used as cannon fodder. We were thrown into battle with minimal training, and got slaughtered by the thousands. Sure, we softened up the GRIMM so that the European Union armies could drive them back into the Russian Dead Zone, but it’s said you could walk from the Rhine to the Vistula on Faunus bodies.” It was Blake’s turn to fix Weiss with an angry stare. “And Nicholas Schnee didn’t just throw the Faunus into combat. Europe needed labor, too—a lot of it, to rebuild from the nuclear exchange of the Third World War. He sold us to the companies that needed it, at a very tidy profit. The Germans seem to be good at that sort of thing in the 20th century--“

_“Shut up!”_ Weiss exploded. “ _Mein Gott!_ You just _had_ to throw the Nazis in my face, didn’t you? My grandfather was no Nazi, Blake! Schnee GmbH employed the Faunus fairly. They were paid well and treated well, before and after the war!” 

To Ruby’s surprise, Blake did not snap back. She seemed calmer now, the rage under control. “Is that what your father told you, Weiss?”

“Yes.”

“And you believed him?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Weiss argued. “The White Fang tried to kill me, Blake!” 

Ruby tried to step in again. “Hold on. I thought that the White Fang were a Faunus rights organization. At least that’s what my dad used to say.”

Before Weiss could answer, Blake spoke. “They were. _My_ dad founded them as such. But after he stepped down, they became more radical—“

Weiss snorted. “Oh yes, here’s where the mean Schnees _forced_ them into it. That’s the excuse of every radical, militant, insane organization ever, Blake—they were _forced_ into it.”

“You’re right.”

It took a few moments to register on Weiss that Blake had agreed with her. “What?”

“You’re right,” Blake repeated in a small voice. “That’s why I left.” She stepped back and sat down on her bed. “When Dad left the White Fang, it was because he and Mom thought that it was losing its focus. We wanted equal rights, but there were some who…” A terrible rictus of pain crossed Blake’s face, enough that even Weiss felt sorry for her. “Some who…some who didn’t think equal rights were enough. They wanted revenge. They wanted to get back at the Schnees for using us during the war, and for slave labor.” She put up a hand. “Hold on, Weiss. Let me finish—“

Weiss ignored her. “You got Menagerie, Blake. The EU gave the Faunus that.”

“Yes, we got Menagerie,” Blake replied bitterly. “What was left of Scotland after it was cut off from England by the nuclear attack in 1962. A nice little zoo for the animals.”

Weiss snorted. “A rather rich zoo, considering the North Sea oil strike you—the Faunus found,” she corrected herself, a touch too late.

“In spite of the Schnees, not because of them—“ 

“Guys!” Ruby exclaimed.

Blake sighed. “Sorry,” she said—to Ruby, not Weiss. “As I was saying before you so crudely interrupted me, Weiss, there were some in the White Fang who didn’t want equality. They wanted dominance. And God help me, I was one of them.” She nodded at Weiss. “Yes, that’s right. I wanted revenge too. I heard all the stories growing up, Weiss, and unlike you, I saw the physical evidence of it. Funerals. Bills of sale. Scars. A _lot_ of scars.”

“No. That’s another lie.” Weiss was shaking her head. “Slavery’s illegal in the EU. It’s been illegal in Europe for 200 years.”

Blake laughed humorlessly. “You think anyone was enforcing the law after 1962? When people were starving? Dying of radiation poisoning? Trying to rebuild after half of Europe got nuked? Besides, it’s not like Faunus were people, right?”

Weiss braced herself against Yang and Blake’s bed. She knew Ruby and Blake would think it was because she was trying to intimidate the latter, but in reality it was because she was now the one shaken to the core. _She’s not telling the truth,_ Weiss told herself. _She can’t be._ “Then why did you leave?” she said, her voice thick with anger and frustration. “Are you here to kill me, Blake? I’m a Schnee, right?”

Blake looked up at Weiss. They stared at each other for a long moment, then slowly, deliberately, Blake turned away, exposing her neck to Weiss. The latter knew enough of Faunus customs to know what Blake was doing. “I’m not here to kill you. Though the White Fang would certainly love it if I did. But that was never what I was here for.” Her gaze returned to Weiss. “One morning, I woke up and realized that I was a terrorist.” She nodded. “See, that’s what _I_ was taught growing up, Weiss. Not by my father or my mother. Dad was a proud member of Her Majesty’s Royal Marines. My mother was a RAF fighter pilot. The other Faunus, though—they taught me that your family _were_ Nazis. And then you realize that it’s your bunch that’s calling for ethnic cleansing and killing everyone you don’t like—even other Faunus that won’t buy into what the White Fang were selling. I realized that, however bad the Schnees might be, they weren’t trying to kill children or blow up trains. All of a sudden, I realized that I was on the wrong side.” Blake hugged herself. “And that’s when I left.”

“Weiss, could you sit down?” Ruby asked. After a moment, Weiss did as asked, sitting on her bed next to her flight leader. “What happened next?”

“I went back to my parents. I told them everything. And then I told Interpol. It helped, for a time. But Mom and Dad agreed that I wasn’t safe in Menagerie; the White Fang could get to me too easily, or worse, my family. Dad had some contacts in the US Marine Corps, and they agreed to hide me.” For the first time that night, Blake smiled. “After all, who would think to look for me in Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children?” She used one of many nicknames for the Marines. “In retrospect, I probably should’ve used an assumed name. I was worried someone would find me out, even with the Navy and Marines scrubbing my name from the base directories.”

“It wasn’t very hard to figure it out,” Weiss said, though that was a bit unfair to Jaune. “So you’re not a real Marine.”

Blake bristled visibly at that. “Fuck off, Weiss. They put me through Marine basic at Parris Island. Just because I was hiding in plain sight didn’t mean I got special treatment. There was a Faunus DI there that hated my guts—probably recognized me. Officers’ school and flight school at Lejeune and Pensacola wasn’t much fun either. I already had flight training because of my mother. Turns out I’m pretty good at this fighter pilot thing. I graduated first in my class. That’s what got me the appointment to Pax River, and the _Gambol Shroud._ Since you seem to know so much about me, Weiss, the only part of my service record that’s a lie is me going to Kansas State University. Some Marine brass must’ve thought it was funny to make my alma mater the Wildcats.” She pointed to the golden wings on her tunic. “I am very much a Marine, and I am very, _very_ proud to say that. It’s about the only thing I’m proud of anymore.”

It was suddenly silent, as if Blake and Weiss had run out of steam at the same time. Ruby drew her knees up to her chest. “Well…now what?”

It was Weiss that spoke first, in a subdued voice. “Can we trust you again, Blake? You can’t deny that you lied to us.”

Blake was quiet for another long moment. “No, I can’t. But if I had told you on the first day that I was a Faunus, Weiss...would you have looked at me and seen Blake Belladonna, Marine fighter pilot? Or just a Faunus?”

Weiss did not reply either at first. She remembered her first reaction to seeing Velvet Scarlatina’s ears, and the revulsion at seeing Blake’s. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “Do you see me as Weiss, fellow member of Ruby Flight…or just a Schnee?”

Ruby jumped to her feet, strode over to Blake, and bonked her on the head, between her ears. Blake was more shocked than hurt, but before she could respond, Ruby did the same thing to Weiss, nearly causing the other girl’s hair bun to come undone. “What the hell?” Blake and Weiss said simutaneously.

“You two need to forget the past!” Ruby declared.

“Why the hell did you hit us?” Blake exclaimed.

“Who cares?” Ruby replied. “It’s in the past!”

Weiss rolled her eyes as she repaired her hair. “You stole that from _The Lion King._ ”

“So? It’s still true.” Ruby regarded both of them. “Listen. We can’t undo the damage that has happened in the past, guys. That’s all behind us. Right here, right now, we’re Ruby Flight, along with my sister, and that’s it. I trust you both. I trusted you two when we were fighting the GRIMM, and guess what—you trusted each other. Even if you didn’t know who Blake really was, Weiss, she knew who _you_ were.” Ruby pointed at Weiss. “You don’t know if everything you’ve been told about the Faunus is true, Weiss.” Then she pointed at Blake. “And you don’t know if everything you’ve been told about the Schnees are true, Blake. Truth?”

“Truth,” Blake said at length.

“Truth,” Weiss agreed.

“There.” Ruby felt satisfied. “Now, Weiss, I want you to touch Blake’s ears. Her cat ears.”

“You want me to do _what?”_

“Do it. That is an order from your flight leader.” Ruby crossed her arms, and stood feet apart, like a conqueror.

“We outrank you! Both of us!” Weiss exclaimed. “And that’s weird—“

“It’s okay.” Blake’s quiet statement took them both by surprise. Ruby had been half-joking, but Blake was not. She bent over. “Go ahead, Weiss.”

Weiss sat, mouth agape, for a moment. Then, as if in a trance, she slowly stood, walked the three steps to Blake, and reached out, hands shaking. She stopped until the shaking ended, then gently grasped one of the furred ears atop Blake’s head. She was not sure what to expect, but the ear was warm, and the fur soft and downy. She ran her fingers over the black fur, then the interior white. She slightly tugged on the ear, almost expecting it to come off, that the whole thing was a prank. It didn’t.

Ruby turned red. She regretted asking Weiss to touch Blake’s ears: she meant it as a peace offering, but now it seemed too intimate. “Er…Weiss? Blake?”

Blake could not help but smile. “My ears aren’t erogenous zones, Ruby. Rubbing them doesn’t turn me on.” 

It was a good thing, too, because the door suddenly opened to admit Yang Xiao Long, one each. “Well, I sure walked into something!” Blake jerked back from Weiss as if electrocuted, and Weiss leapt backwards so fast that she nearly bowled over Ruby. Yang pushed the door shut, and regarded the tableaux in front of her. She managed to keep a straight face, and not let on that she had been listening at the door for the past ten minutes. 

“Yang!” Ruby shouted. She pointed at Blake, who was trying to hide her ears the same way she might have tried to hide her breasts, as if Yang had come upon her topless. “Yang!” Ruby repeated. “Blake’s a Faunus!”

Yang played it insufferably cool. “Oh, is that all? I knew that. Known it since this morning, actually.”

“You _what?”_ Weiss was getting a lot of use of that word.

Blake gave up trying to cover her ears, mainly because they were flattened back over her head in embarrassment. “W…when? How?”

Yang opened the refrigerator, withdrew a can of soda, and cracked it open. She had just come from the gym. “This morning, like I told you.” She took a long drink, glorying in the thunderstruck look on the other three girls’ faces. “You were in the shower, Blake. I came in to brush my teeth. You started banging around and saying you couldn’t see because shampoo got into your eyes, so I handed you a towel, remember? Opened the shower door and saw you in all your naked glory.” Yang grinned. “Saw those two little cat ears right up there, too. Kinda cute.”

“And…and you didn’t say anything?”

“Why? Does it matter?” Yang drank more of the soda. Actually, she had been shocked to the point of nearly falling over, but the rest of Ruby Flight didn’t need to know that. “I don’t give a damn. Unless you start hacking up hairballs or licking yourself in front of Ruby or something.”

They all stared popeyed at her for a moment, then Blake burst into laughter. Ruby followed immediately thereafter, and though she struggled, Weiss gave in too. Yang drank the rest of the soda and watched as the three girls collapsed onto their beds, shrieking in mirth. 

Later that night, after lights out, Yang lay awake in bed. Ruby and Weiss were sound asleep, the former laying on her back with one leg hanging over the side, the other with the covers pulled neatly over her. 

Yang rolled over and sneaked a peek on her bunkmate. Blake was still awake, though her face was hidden by _Ninjas of Love._ Now that she no longer needed to hide the fact that she was a Faunus, she could read without the light on, using her natural night vision.

Yang settled back onto her pillow. “Hey, Blake,” she whispered.

“Yes, Yang?”

“You think you and Weiss are cool now?”

“I think so. I hope so.” She heard Blake sigh. “Ruby’s right. We need to not assume so much about the other. I’m willing to try if she is.”

“Glad to hear that. And…y’know…if you ever need to talk with someone, I’ll listen. I may not give good advice, but I’ll listen.”

“I appreciate that, Yang. Thank you. The feeling is mutual.”

It was quiet for a bit. “Hey, Blake?”

“Yes, Yang?”

“I have a personal question for you. You don’t have to answer. It’s…kind of embarrassing.”

Blake paused. “Well…go ahead, I suppose.”

“Do Faunus sniff each other’s butts when they say hi to each other? I mean, I’ve never seen you and Velvet together, so—“ Yang was cut off as she felt a foot hit her rear end through the mattress. She fought down a snicker. 

So did Blake, less successfully; she giggled and snorted. Weiss turned over in her bed, but didn’t wake up. Ruby wouldn’t have been awakened by another nuclear war. “You’re an asshole, Yang Xiao Long. Go to bed, or I’ll show you my claws.”

“Promises, promises.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's better. Leave it to Yang to put everything in perspective. Weiss' comments about her father mean a lot more after recent events in Season 7. The "Weiss touches Blake's ears" scene was borrowed from the RWBY manga. 
> 
> I think this is the chapter where Ruby really starts to feel like a leader.
> 
> Thanks for all the great reviews. That's what keeps us writers going.


	17. A Storm is Coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's peace between Blake and Weiss, but the action ratchets up elsewhere. Torchwick has started hitting DUST shipments again, and it's going to fall to JRB Beacon to stop him. But someone's helping Torchwick, and Weiss has a bad feeling she knows who it is.
> 
> And then there's this red-haired teenager wandering around the flightline...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Building towards the big finish for this story arc. Kind of a quiet chapter this time, as it's very much build for the big, BIG dogfight coming up soon.

_Squadron Dispersal Area A_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_20 April 2001_

The canopy of the F-16 came up as Ruby Rose took off her oxygen mask. “Whew,” she said. “What a morning.” 

Her crew chief climbed up the ladder to help her unstrap, but she held up a hand. Ruby needed a minute. Her body screamed for sleep like a man in the desert wanted water. Finally, with some effort and some help from the crew chief, she got unstrapped and down the ladder. Ruby took off her red helmet and stuffed it in the bag at her waist, then plodded down the flightline. Across the way, she saw Weiss Schnee getting down from _Myrtenaster,_ looking just as worn out as Ruby was. And they still had to debrief. 

_Well, at least Weiss and Blake are getting along now,_ Ruby thought to herself. The Schnee heiress and the Faunus weren’t quite friends, but they were certainly not enemies, and there was a newfound respect for each other. At least, neither looked at the other with suspicion or fear. Blake had even taken to moving around the room without the bow in her hair. Ruby caught herself the night before staring at the Faunus girl’s ears, and how they moved. It was a novelty. 

Certainly Vytal Flag’s novelty had worn off—classroom learning every other day, 1V1 hops, the occasional 2v2 with Weiss, and one grueling long-distance flight from Beacon to northern Canada and back. All of it was necessary for Hunter/Huntress training, Ruby knew, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t boring at times. During the long-distance mission she’d actually fallen asleep, and didn’t even realize it until Yang had warned her she was dropping out of formation. The combat flights were interesting and fun, and so far Ruby had yet to become a “mort”—though certainly everyone she’d fought against had tried. Coco Adel had drawn her into a particularly ghastly nine-G turning fight that she had only won through pure luck. Still, with the exception of the dogfights, it was becoming routine.  
Until this morning.

The air was split with the sound of jet engines overhead. Even though everyone at Beacon heard that sound so often, it was rare that people could not resist at least a glance upward. Ruby was no different, and was rewarded with a four-ship flight of aircraft to warm the most jaded airplane otaku’s heart. “Whoa,” she breathed. The silhouette of the F-18 Hornet was a familiar one, but the Eurocanard fighter was not. _Whoa,_ she repeated to herself, _is that a Gripen? No, by golly, that’s a Lavi! And what the heck is that in the lead; it’s not a F-18 or F-16…holy cats, it’s a Ching Kuo! And…oooh holy mother of pizza, that’s a F-104!_ The latter, as it broke over the flightline to follow the F-18, the Lavi, and the FCK-1 Ching Kuo on the downwind leg, gave out a spooky, distinctive moan, like a lost soul. Ruby shot both hands in the air and let out a cheer. The F-104 was a rare bird these days, a design from before the Third War, the last of the venerable Century Series left in service, and then only in Italy. She’d only seen them in museums, and now there was one at Beacon!

Ruby was so enthusiastic that she wasn’t watching where she was going, and collided with someone who was also distracted. Both of them yelped and fell to the tarmac. Ruby’s helmet rolled out of its bag, and she hurriedly got to her feet to retrieve it. She noticed the other person was not getting up. “Oh my gosh! Are you okay?” Ruby blurted.

The other pilot looked up at her. She smiled. “Salutations!”

Ruby noticed blood trickling from a scrape on the other girl’s arm. She helped her up, frantically reached into her survival suit for a bandage, only for a pale hand to appear, holding a hankerchief. Weiss smiled at her, then put the hankerchief on the wound. The girl stared at it with clinical interest. It wasn’t a deep cut. “Are you okay?” Weiss repeated.

“I’m quite all right. Thanks for asking.” Weiss handed her the hankerchief. She stared at that for a moment as well, then said “Oh!” and placed it against the wound. “My name is Penny,” she said. “Penny Polendina. It’s a pleasure to meet you—both of you.” 

“I’m Ruby Rose—this is Weiss Schnee. Sorry I didn’t see you,” Ruby said. She noted Penny’s features—red hair, creamy skin, freckles, a pink bow in her hair. Were it not for the green flight suit with USAF wings on it, and lieutenant’s bars, Ruby would have guessed someone’s teenage daughter was running around a flightline unsupervised. A thought occurred to Ruby and she stared at the top of Penny’s head.

“Is something wrong?” Penny asked.

“Er, it’s nothing,” Ruby said quickly. Beneath the bow was more red hair, not cat ears. “So, uh, where did you come from?”

“Grissom,” Penny answered. She turned and pointed towards the transient ramp. “That’s mine.”

Ruby followed her finger and would have let out a very loud squee, had it not been for Weiss’ hand. Penny’s plane showed the long, sleek fuselage and swing wings of the B-1B Lancer. Weiss gave a short nod. “So you are a bomber pilot,” she said, barely keeping the contempt out of her voice. Like most fighter pilots, Weiss did not have a high opinion of bomber pilots. Their job was to rearrange landscapes and flatten the enemy, but to fighter pilots, bombers tended to be large, slow targets that were a pain in the ass to escort. “Where’s the rest of your crew?”

“Oh, I’m it.” Penny’s smile grew wider, if that was possible. “My aircraft has been specially modified, you see.”

Ruby finally fought off Weiss’ hand. “Really? Wow! Can I see?”

Penny’s smile faltered. “I don’t believe so. Sorry. I will have to check with my superiors.”

Weiss took Ruby’s arm. “Ruby, we need to go debrief. It was good to meet you, Lieutenant Polendina.” She began pulling Ruby away. There was something off about Penny Polendina. “You can keep the hankerchief, Lieutenant.”

“Oh! Thank you, Miss Schnee.”

Ruby waved. “Hopefully see you again!”

“And you, Miss Rose!” Penny waved as Weiss dragged Ruby away even faster. Once they were gone, Penny lifted the hankerchief. The wound had stopped bleeding, and she hesitantly touched the blood on the cloth. “Have I made some friends?”

“She was very weird,” Weiss said as they walked towards the debriefing shack. It was actually a small building, but the name had stuck since World War II.

“Don’t be mean, Weiss.” Ruby shrugged. “I mean, she _is_ a bomber pilot, and they are pretty strange…even if the B-1 is pretty cool. It can maneuever like a fighter!”

Weiss raised an eyebrow as she opened the door, and let that be her statement on that subject. 

The shack was empty save Ozpin, who to their surprise was alone behind a large metal desk. Both Ruby and Weiss came to attention. Ozpin nodded and pointed to two seats. “What did you see out there?” he asked, without preamble.

“Nothing, sir,” Ruby replied. “We flew all the way to Ottawa, and there was no sign of the missing flight.”

Ozpin gave them another nod. “Cardinal Flight found it. What was left of it.” A map of the Great Lakes was spread out on the desk. “Lufthansa Cargo Flight 3113 was en route from Hamburg to Chicago. It disappeared after checking in with Niagara Falls. The 747 was found at a small airfield near Ypsilanti in the Michigan Dead Zone—a burnt out wreck.”

“Then it was shot down?” Weiss asked.

“It does not appear to have been. It looks like it was forced down, then burned.”

“The crew?”

Ozpin shook his head. “Cardin Winchester made a low pass over the wreckage. He spotted bodies. The crew looks to have been lined up and shot.”

Ruby felt sick, but Weiss rubbed her chin in thought. “Isn’t that odd, sir? Usually air pirates hold the crews and aircraft for ransom.” 

“Usually, yes. This is the second time this week.” Ozpin pointed at the map again. “Hapag-Lloyd Flight 322, an Airbus A330, was also forced down, this time just south of the ruins of Cleveland. The same thing—the aircraft burned, the crew killed.” Ozpin leaned back in his chair. “I’m going to tell you both something that I’d prefer not be repeated in the officers’ club. You can tell the other members of your flight, but I’d prefer no one else, for now…but I thought you especially should know, Lieutenant Schnee.”

“Me, sir?”

“Yes. Both Lufthansa 3113 and Hapag-Lloyd 322 were carrying DUST modules—four in each aircraft.”

Weiss swallowed involuntarily. “Were the DUST modules…recovered?”

“No. The other rather strange thing is that Hapag-Lloyd 322 was carrying a quarter of a million Euros.” Ozpin paused for effect. “The recovery squad found the money burned, but as far as they can tell, none of it was taken.”

“That doesn’t make sense!” Ruby exclaimed. “Isn’t the Ohio Dead Zone where that Torchwick Gang hangs out? The ones I ran into last week?”

“It is,” Ozpin confirmed. “While Roman Torchwick has been known to kill prisoners who aren’t ransomed, he’s never killed them without at least asking for money first. In fact, many of his captives say that Torchwick treats them decently, even well. From what we know about him, Torchwick sees himself as the old-style gentleman thief. For him to just arbitrarily murder is very odd, as you say, Lieutenant Schnee. For him to murder _and_ fail to take a small fortune is so out of character, that the Federal Bureau of Investigation is wondering if Torchwick has been killed and replaced with someone more psychotic.” 

Weiss had a thought, and wished she hadn’t. Not after the confrontation with Blake. “Sir…could it be the White Fang?” Ruby turned to look at her in shock, but Weiss was not looking at her. She was looking at Ozpin. _Surely he has to know who Blake really is—really was,_ Weiss corrected herself. 

Ozpin, however, was a superb poker player. His expression did not change. “That is a possibility. The White Fang usually confine themselves to Europe and North Africa, but there are groups here in the United States. They tend to follow old Ghira’s philosophy rather than Sienna Khan’s, but there’s always the chance they’ve been radicalized.” Weiss noted that Ozpin had not mentioned Ghira Belladonna’s full name. _He knows about Blake, then, but doesn’t know that we know about her. Or doesn’t care if we do._

“I only bring it up because the White Fang have struck Schnee company trains, trying to steal DUST.”

“I understand, Lieutenant.” Ozpin rolled up the map. “We will be maintaining our combat air patrols, and probably start extending them further out. Possibly even escort duty.” Ruby and Weiss suppressed a groan over that; escort duty was no fun for a fighter pilot. It required a lot of throttling back so the aircraft being escorted—usually a bomber or a transport—was not left behind. “Get some sleep. Both of you have been up most of the night. You’re excused from class today. Dismissed, and thank you.”

All three stood. As the two pilots turned to go, Ruby asked Ozpin, “Sir, what’s with the B-1 we saw parked on the transient ramp?” She did not mention Penny Polendina. 

“Ah, that. I did mention escort duty? That will be what you will train with.”

Ruby smelled a rat. The B-1 hardly needed escorts; it was faster than her F-16. If they were truly training for something, it would have been a B-52. Still, it would do no good to ask; Ozpin would just say it was above her security clearance, which it was. “Thank you, sir.”

“And don’t go poking around in it, Lieutenant Rose.”

Ruby laughed. Ozpin knew what an airplane nut she was. “No, sir. Never entertained the thought, sir. Am quite frankly shocked you would think I would do that, sir.”

Ozpin laughed as well. “I said dismissed, Lieutenant.”

As they walked to the equipment room to change out of their flight gear, Ruby noticed Weiss was pensive, her face set in an icy expression. “Weiss?”

Weiss shook herself out of it. “Sorry, Ruby.”

“It’s okay. Why would air pirates want DUST equipment?”

Weiss shrugged. “I don’t know. They could install it in their aircraft, but the average air pirate doesn’t have the training to use it. Nor do they need to. Air pirates avoid taking pilots like us on; they want to go for the easy score, like airliners or unescorted transports.” She thought for a moment. “In fact, the last time I heard of an air pirate gang trying to take on an air force head on was when the Winged Scimitars tried to hit Crete with an airstrike, so they could keep the Greeks from interfering with them. Both sides took heavy casualties, but the Greeks wiped them out to a man. Even the ones that bailed out—they were gunned in their parachutes.”

“What about the White Fang?” Ruby did not want to ask it, but had to.

“The White Fang do have an air component—that was one of the things they used in their last big train job. The one Bl—“ Weiss noted other pilots close enough to possibly hear as they neared the equipment room. “—well, you know,” Weiss finished. “They could use DUST…for…” Weiss turned even more pale than usual. “Oh my God.”

Ruby knew what Weiss was thinking. The Schnee family, their estate, everything they owned were undoubtedly defended by Luftwaffe units equipped with DUST. But if the White Fang had their own DUST-equipped fighters, then the odds would be very even. “Weiss,” Ruby said, “I don’t want to scare you even more, but there’s something you should know.”

“What?” They stopped outside the door to the equipment room.

“When I fought Torchwick and his gang, there was someone else involved. Roman flies a Sea Harrier, and his guys flew F-5s. But just about the time I was going to run him down, just before Goodwitch showed up in her F-22, this other plane shot at me with four AMRAAMs. Air pirates don’t use those; they’re too expensive and hard to get. But this thing did. And here’s the scary part—I never even picked them up on radar.” Ruby chewed her bottom lip. “Weiss, what if there’s someone flying around with a stolen F-22…and it’s equipped with DUST?”

Weiss found herself swallowing uncontrollably again. The USAF planned to equip their Raptor fleet with DUST, as soon as funding allowed it, but none to Weiss’ knowledge as yet had the system. “We need to talk to Blake,” she whispered.

“Why? Blake wouldn’t know anything about Torchwick.”

“No…but she would know why the White Fang hit that train.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's Penny. Wait, why is she bleeding in this story? 
> 
> Good stuff for airplane otaku like myself in this chapter. The Lavi never actually went into service with Israel; it was cancelled as too expensive, but this is another story. The Ching Kuo is a real aircraft. And yes, the Italians were still using F-104s in 2001.


	18. When the World Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for Professor Oobleck's lecture, and the foundation for this world's Remnant of the United States. What happened? Why is a third of the world radioactive ruins and another third overrun by GRIMM?
> 
> Ozpin is warned that Torchwick plans to attack another DUST shipment. He has a plan, but it will involve using some of his Faunus pilots: Sun Wukong and Blake Belladonna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Building up to the climax of this story arc. 
> 
> I apologize for the long infodump from Oobleck, but I wanted to give some background to this version of Remnant, and what happened to cause all the world's devastation and creation of the GRIMM. It does have bearing on the overall story, as Salem *does* exist in this world. The historical record up to when the Soviets launch their missiles in Cuba is accurate.

_Building 91213 (Female Officers’ Quarters)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_20 April 2001_

“Don’t you have to get to class?” Blake asked. She was pulling on her fatigue pants. “We’ve got a new instructor today—Professor Oobleck.”

“We’re excused. It was a long flight last night.” Ruby said. She and Weiss had agreed that Ruby was probably the best person to breach the subject of the train attack with Blake; if it was Weiss, Blake might assume that the heiress was restarting their near-fight of five nights before, and it would shatter the tentative peace between the two women. “Blake, can I ask you a kind of embarrassing question?”

“Lot of that going around.” Yang was getting dressed as well.

“Sure, I guess,” Blake replied guardedly.

“Well…” Ruby hesitated, then plunged on. “Blake, it’s about the White Fang.” Ruby resisted taking a step backwards as those yellow eyes swung coldly in her direction. She waved her hands defensively. “No, let me explain!”

The eyes softened a little. “I’m not stopping you, Ruby.”

“Er, sure. See, we ended up staying out all night because there was another air pirate attack—second time this week. Two cargo planes, forced down, then the crews killed. Both flights were carrying DUST equipment. One of them was carrying money, but…the money was left behind. The attacks were done over the Ohio Dead Zone, so Captain Ozpin thinks it was the Torchwick Gang, but…”

Blake nodded, not looking at Ruby. “…you think it was the White Fang?” She stood and looked instead at Weiss. 

Weiss returned the stare. “It was brought up, yes. Blake,” she said, her voice even, “I swear, I’m not accusing you of being involved. It’s just that…when that train in Germany was hit by the White Fang—“

“The attack I was involved in.” Blake made it a statement, not a question.

“Yes. That one. Were the White Fang after DUST?” Weiss was careful to say “White Fang” instead of “you.”

Blake paused. “That was part of it,” she answered. “And the White Fang made off with one module, but the objective was to destroy the train, and show the Schnees that they could be gotten to even in Germany. The White Fang wanted to massacre the passengers aboard as well. I made sure they didn’t, and left after that. I was planning to leave anyway, but that was the last straw. _One_ of the last straws.” To the other girls’ surprise, Blake’s eyes were shining with tears. “I’m…I’m sorry. I know I should’ve made sure that Ad…the White Fang didn’t even get that one module. I wasn’t really in my right mind at the time, I guess.”

Ruby reached forward and touched her shoulder. “It’s okay, Blake.”

Blake put her hand on Ruby’s. “Thanks, Ruby. It’s not okay, but…thanks.” She quickly wiped her eyes. Weiss noticed her ears were drooped to either side; Blake was very nervous about something. _She’s going to be easy to play poker against,_ Weiss thought to herself, _but she’s not lying._ “Why were the White Fang after DUST?” she asked gently.

“I don’t know. The White Fang have qualified pilots and some aircraft, but they can’t use them often.” She pointed to Weiss’ uniform. “Mainly because of the various EU air forces. But their aircraft are pretty poor stuff, Weiss. I never flew with them. We’re talking about old MiGs they found in the Russian Dead Zone or castoffs they stole from the EU. DUST wouldn’t even be compatible.”

“It would be pretty valuable on the open market, though,” Yang put in.

“Very true,” Blake agreed. “And the White Fang could always use the cash.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry that I can’t help you more. Before you ask, I don’t have any contacts left in the White Fang. No one.”

“Of course not,” Weiss said. Blake’s head came up in surprise. “And even if you did, we wouldn’t let you contact them. The risk is too great.” She yawned despite herself. “Sorry!”

“It’s sack time for us,” Ruby said. “You guys better get to class. Thanks, Blake.”

“Sure. Anytime.” Blake smiled. 

Yang slapped her back with enough force to knock the air out of Blake’s lungs and left the room. Ruby went into the bathroom. Blake went to follow Yang, but she paused on the threshold. “Weiss…thank you for what you said. That you wouldn’t let me contact the White Fang.”

Weiss was stepping out of her flight suit. She shrugged. “Well, I meant it.” She winked at Blake. “Besides, if they came to kill you, they’d probably kill me as a bonus.”

Blake nodded at her again, and left.

_Building 11713 (Auditorium C)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_20 April 2001_

“Before I get started today,” Professor Bartholomew Oobleck said, “allow me to take a moment and introduce the latest additions to Vytal Flight. As Colonel Goodwitch may have mentioned, we will bring increasing numbers of new flights here to Beacon, both to further train as you are, and act as adversaries for air-to-air training.” He took a sip of coffee. “So, without further adieu, allow me to introduce to you Sun Flight: Captain Sun Wukong of the Chinese Unified Air Force; Lieutenant Scarlet David of the Israeli Defense Force Heyl Ha’avir; Lieutenant Sage Ayana of the Italian Aeronautica Militaire; and Lieutenant Neptune Vasilias of the United States Navy. Gentlemen, if you would stand, and ladies and gentlemen, if you would greet them…”

Four men in the front row stood. Instantly, everyone in the room shouted “SIT DOWN, ASSHOLE!” It was fighter pilot tradition. Sun Flight clearly expected it, since all four laughed and waved. As Sun Wukong sat down, Blake noticed his tail—he was a Faunus. Under her bow, her ears twitched involuntarily. She was tempted for a brief moment to simply reach up and undo it, but the fear of being found out stopped her. Ruby Flight were her friends, but she could trust no one else at Beacon.

Oobleck dived right into his lecture, and Blake’s pen flew across the page, pausing only when Oobleck did—in his case, to take another drink of coffee. Nearly alone among the people at Beacon, Oobleck dressed in civilian clothes, though he was former USAF. Not only did he talk fast, he moved fast as well, speed walking around the room. Oobleck gave the impression that he had to go to the bathroom, and the more Blake watched him, the more _she_ needed to go. 

One thing Oobleck wasn’t was boring, and though it seemed weird that part of Vytal Flag’s syllabus was mandatory historical lectures, at least she was in no danger of falling asleep. He made history come alive, even if she already knew much of it.

“The Cuban Missile Crisis _must_ be put into its historical context,” Oobleck was saying. “The Cold War between the United States and the Soviet Union had been already heating up. The Second Berlin Crisis, in which American and Soviet tanks were pointing their main guns at each other, had only occurred months before. The Soviets felt hemmed in by American bases scattered all around their frontier, and the U-2 spyplane incident had embarrassed Premier Khrushchev worse than it had Eisenhower. Khrushchev’s decision to secretly base nuclear missiles in Cuba was as much a reaction to the twin embarrassments of the U-2 Incident and the Second Berlin Crisis, as it was an acknowledgement that the Soviets were actually behind in the arms race.”

Velvet held up a hand. “Professor Oobleck, what about the so-called missile gap?”

Oobleck pointed at her as he slugged back another shot of coffee. “An excellent question, Flight Officer! The words ‘so-called’ are appropriate, since there was no missile gap. Khrushchev and the Soviet Union had bluffed the United States into thinking the Soviets were further ahead than they were, but in reality, the Soviets were lagging behind the United States. Basing missiles in Cuba was a way to close that gap—besides responding to the American basing of missiles in Turkey and the United Kingdom, it was also to ensure that the Soviets retained a credible first strike capability in the face of increasingly advanced American intercontinental ballistic missiles and submarine-launched ballistic missiles.” 

Another drink and Oobleck continued. “Nonetheless, after American reconnaissance aircraft spotted the nuclear missiles in Cuba in mid-October 1962, President Kennedy and Premier Khrushchev were prepared to find a way out of the crisis. Kennedy imposed a blockade around Cuba, but referred to it as a ‘quarantine,’ as blockades are technically acts of war. Khrushchev realized that by basing missiles that would give Washington DC, and by extension the President of the United States, less than five minutes warning time, he had committed a massively destabilizing move. Khrushchev was prepared to exchange the missiles in Cuba for a noninvasion pledge by the United States, which, as you know, had been attempting to remove Fidel Castro for some time.”

Another hand went up: Russel Thrush’s. “So what happened? Who fired first?”

Oobleck set down his coffee flask. He stopped moving for a moment, and Blake was surprised to see the professor visibly controlling his emotions. Then she remembered that Oobleck almost certainly lived through this armageddon as a child. “The Soviets on Cuba did, but we’re not sure why. We know that Khrushchev had revised his earlier offer, under pressure from hardliners in the Politburo, to trade his missiles in Cuba for the Americans’ in Turkey. Before Kennedy could respond to this offer, a U-2 was shot down over Cuba, and the Soviet commander of nuclear forces near Havana had received leaked plans of an American invasion. He took the plans to be an actual threat rather than simply plans, and coupled with the U-2 shootdown, feared the Americans had already launched, or soon would. And so he, against orders from Moscow, ordered his battery to fire his missiles…and the rest was history.”

“So were 60 million people,” Cardin Winchester added.

Oobleck nodded. “An insubordinate answer, Captain Winchester, but a not inaccurate one.”

Blake wrote down the lesson, and knew the rest, although her parents were not alive at the time. Once American radar detected the launch of Soviet missiles from Cuba, the retaliation was immediate and devastating—but so was the Soviet launch. Casualties were actually much lower than projections, as neither side quite launched everything they had and many missiles never reached their targets for various reasons. What had killed more than nuclear fireballs were electromagnetic pulses, loss of infrastructure, and simple panic. 

Blake raised her hand. “Professor, what year did you say the GRIMM first appeared?”

“Ah. In 1967, Lieutenant Belladonna. They were first identified along the West Coast of the United States—or what was left of it—but we know now that rumors of ‘monster attacks’ for years in central Europe and in northern China were actually GRIMM.”

Yang’s hand went up. “And we still don’t know who controls them?”

Oobleck shook his head. “No, Captain Long. The prevailing belief is that the GRIMM are being run either by fanatics of one side or another, or some top secret doomsday program activated them and they are somehow self-replicating. Since a GRIMM has never been captured intact, our attempts to trace back their control signals have been spotty at best. And when we do send out our long-range patrols—the Hunters and Huntresses—to attempt to find the GRIMM main base, or factory, or whatever…those patrols either find nothing, or usually simply don’t return.” 

“No evidence that they are aliens?” asked Jaune.

This brought laughter, but Oobleck silenced the laughter with a look. “That is one possibility, Lieutenant Arc. A perhaps not likely one, but a rational one nonetheless.”

As Blake left the auditorium, a voice called her name. She turned around as Pyrrha ran to catch up with her. “Glad I caught you before you went back to the dorm,” the other pilot said. She handed Blake a notecard. “Flight assignment for the combat air patrol tonight. You’ll be flying with one of the new guys—Sun Wukong. I have to catch up with him.”

“Oh. Thanks, Pyrrha.” Blake stared at the notecard as Pyrrha rushed off—Sun had been one of the first to leave the auditorium. _Why him? Is it because he’s a Faunus too?_ Blake knew Ozpin was aware of her secret; Goodwitch, who handled the flight assignments, she wasn’t sure about. _It could be just a coincidence. I’ve already flown two CAPs over the past week. Makes sense Goodwitch would want me to break in one of the new guys. Still…if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that there isn’t a lot of coincidences in life._

She tapped the card against her hands and headed back for the dorm. She still needed to finish a paper for Port’s class that afternoon.

Ozpin stared at the e-mail messages on his screen. There were two. The first read:

_To: Ozpin CO JRB Beacon_

_From: Arashikaze_

_Subject: DUST Robberies_

_Intelligence Source CAMO claims DUST attack to take place at Milwaukee IAP 2300 local. Two_

_Lufthansa 747s to arrive with largest DUST shipment of year for USAF. Torchwick Gang and White_

_Fang involvement probable. Advise large CAP. Source PERSIS claims Torchwick will not move against defended target._

The second:

_To: Ozpin_

_From: Qrow_

_Subject: Ongoing_

_Queen has pawns._

Goodwitch read over his shoulder. “That’s not good. Either one.” She pointed at the first. “Who’s Arashikaze?”

“CIA. An old friend of mine. She’s not supposed to be passing information to me, so if she sent this, it’s legitimate.”

“Does she know…” Goodwitch looked around Ozpin’s office. It was highly doubtful the room was bugged, but it was always possible.

“She knows,” Ozpin answered the unfinished question. 

Goodwitch blew out her breath and sat down. “If we put everything in the air tonight, Torchwick will back off. He’s one of the smarter air pirates out there. No matter what he’s being paid, he’s not going to take what’s left of his gang against five flights of fighters. Even if we’ve transferred Sake Flight back to Grissom, and even if he’s been reinforced by whatever the White Fang can scrounge up.”

Ozpin leaned back in his chair, winced at the pain in his bad leg, and steepled his fingers. After awhile, he said, “No.”

Both Goodwitch’s eyebrows went up. “No?”

“No.” Ozpin faced her. “Glynda, do you remember the old story about the young bull and the old bull?” She shook her head. “So a young bull and an old bull come upon a field of cows. The young bull says, ‘Dad, let’s run down there and fuck one of those cows!’ The old bull says, ‘No, son. Let’s _walk_ down there and fuck them _all._ ”

Goodwitch chuckled. Despite being a sailor by trade, Ozpin rarely used profanity these days. “I see your point. So if we maintain our regular CAP, Torchwick assumes we’re on standard operating procedure. He goes after the DUST. More than likely his plan involves landing a force of White Fang ground personnel to grab the DUST while he orbits overhead. They leave before we can react.” Goodwitch tapped a finger against her chin in thought. “So we either hit them while the White Fang are on the ground, or…”

“Or, we trail them back to wherever Torchwick’s hideout is, and send in a massive force to destroy the entire place. And ground forces to capture Torchwick and the ‘queen’s pawns.’ I do love Qrow’s touch of the dramatic.” Ozpin reached forward and deleted both e-mails. “Who is on CAP tonight?”

Goodwitch reached into a pocket and consulted a notepad. “Belladonna and Wukong.” She looked up at Ozpin. “They’re both Faunus. Can we trust them against the White Fang? Especially Belladonna?”

“Wukong has never had contact with the White Fang, and if our dossier on him is any indication, he has no love for them. The White Fang have a kill order on Blake Belladonna, direct from Sienna Khan. We don’t have to worry about Belladonna’s loyalty.” Ozpin thought for a moment. “Let’s have Rose and Schnee on alert five to backup Belladonna and Wukong in case Torchwick decides to go after our CAP. If for some reason something goes south, we scramble everything.”

“That sounds reasonable.” Goodwitch remembered something. “You should know that Penny Polendina has requested a night air test tonight.”

Ozpin nodded. “No reason to say no.”

“Ironwood’s not going to like it if his pet project gets involved.”

“Then he shouldn’t have sent her here.” He got to his feet, slowly. “Glynda, make sure Polendina’s B-1 is fully armed. Just in case.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Arashikaze" is an ongoing character of mine who shows up in most of my stories. Don't worry-Ozpin's CIA source will be as far as she shows up in "RWBY Wings." There will be about three prominent OCs, but they're mainly there to move the story along, and won't take away from the story of the main characters. 
> 
> Next chapter will be the "season finale" big battle! Can't wait to post it.


	19. Mighty Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blake and Sun are on a normal patrol when they find themselves engaged with Roman Torchwick--and 20 White Fang fighters. Help is on the way from Ruby, Jaune, Pyrrha and Penny, but will it be enough? 
> 
> Welcome to the Battle of Lake Michigan, which will change the pilots forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! This was, at the time, the biggest dogfight I'd ever written, but there's one towards the end of "On RWBY Wings" that's even longer! I had thought to split this into two chapters, but nah. Who likes cliffhangers? (Besides RT.)
> 
> Feel free to listen to the Top Gun soundtrack as you read this. I did while writing it!

_Near Sheboygan_

_Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_20 April 2001_

Blake tried to settle into her ejection seat better, and thanked God—or the Schnees, whichever—that she hadn’t been born with a tail. How Sun was handling it, she had no idea. She glanced over at the FCK-1A Ching Kuo, and laughed behind her oxygen mask when she remembered Ruby’s description of the Chinese fighter: _if a F-16 and a F-18 loved each other very much…_

She allowed herself a quick rest of her eyes, then an equally quick scan of her instrument panel. _Gambol Shroud_ was humming along perfectly. Her armament panel showed her weapons load tonight: two AMRAAMs, two Phoenix, two Sidewinders. Blake had considered leaving the Phoenixes behind—they were heavy—but there was always the possibility that she would need their long reach and hitting power. She’d checked Sun’s loadout before flight as well: four Sidewinders, two AMRAAM. After checking the sky around her, Blake once more squirmed around in her seat. Aside from her and Sun, the night sky over northeastern Wisconsin was empty. 

She allowed her thoughts to roam a little. First of all, Sun Wukong. He was certainly friendly enough: his first action when they had met on the flightline was a good, strong handshake. Blake’s father had always told her that the best way to judge a person was by their handshake. He was certainly not ashamed of his Faunus heritage: his monkey tail curled restlessly behind him. Sun was tall and handsome, with blond-colored hair and a propensity towards leaving his flight suit unzipped to his navel, with nothing on beneath it. That was undoubtedly for her benefit: the words ‘chiseled abs’ certainly applied to the Chinese pilot. Blake caught herself thinking what it would be like to run her fingers over those abs.

_Down, kitty,_ she smiled to herself. _Yes, I know, it has been awhile since…_ Blake shook her head. She didn’t need to be thinking about that right now. That would bring thoughts of _him,_ and she did not need those thoughts. 

“Blake, Sun.” Sun Wukong would never know how much Blake appreciated the interruption. “I’ve got something…two bogeys bearing 300, angels 4000 at 64 miles.” As usual, Blake and Sun were flying “eyeball-shooter,” with Sun keeping his radar on and Blake keeping hers off. They flew a close formation, if for no other reason that, with her radar off, Blake’s F-14 was nearly undetectable. “Negative squawk.” That meant nothing on the Identification Friend or Foe. She automatically looked to the right, but even her superb night sight would be unable to pick out an aircraft at that range.

“Roger; let’s identify. You have the lead, Sun.” She dropped her flaps for a second to slow down, let Sun’s FCK-1 get in the lead position, and took up position behind and to the right. “Haisla, Ruby Four. We’ve got two bogeys at 64 miles, bearing 010, angels 4000.” While everyone at Beacon used their first name in training and in flight communication, outside of that they used callsigns.

“Roger, Ruby Four.” Haisla was an E-3 Sentry AWACS radar aircraft orbiting near Davenport, Iowa. There, it could watch the entire Midwest region with the powerful radar atop the converted airliner. “We’ve got that. Be advised that no air pirate warning has been issued. We’ll try and contact them and get back to you.”

“Any objections if we intercept and identify, Haisla?”

There was a pause. “Negative, Ruby Four.”

Blake switched frequencies back to the flight channel. “Sun, let’s check them out.”

“Roger that, Blake. Why don’t you take the lead? With that big camera under your nose, you can see them better than I can.”

Blake clicked the mike twice to acknowledge. That was true. Slung under the nose of the F-14 was the Television Camera System, the TCS. It was a powerful camera linked to one of her cockpit displays that would allow her to see targets visually, much further than even a Faunus could see. On a good, clear day, she would be able to see the bogeys with the TCS from where they were now; during the night, they would have to get within ten miles. Luckily there were no clouds tonight, though only a thin crescent moon. She pushed up the throttle a little as Sun dropped back. “Sun, go nose cold. I’ll go hot.” Sun turned off his radar, and Blake switched _Gambol Shroud’s_ on. This was the F-14’s stock in trade: the powerful radar was designed to pick out targets at much longer ranges than she was at now, and over water: they were now over Lake Michigan. Over water, her radar was actually somewhat superior to the AWACS. 

The radar got two sweeps before it was suddenly blanked out. Her radar screen showed snow over the front quadrant, but before it had been blanked out, it had shown more than two bogeys: it had picked up six. “Sun, I’m being jammed.”

Sun turned his radar back on. “I am too!”

“Haisla, Ruby Four! I’m picking up heavy jamming at 40 miles, still bearing 010, east of Milwaukee. Identified six bogeys, not two, before it started.”

“Roger, Ruby Four.” Haisla seemed unconcerned. “We see the jamming. We’re still trying to figure out what’s going on.”

Blake gritted her teeth. “It’s air pirates, Haisla! Why else would they be jamming?”

“We’re not sure, Ruby Four. Stand by.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Blake shouted in frustration, though she kept her finger off the mike button. Her radar would burn through the jamming, but it would take a little while. She accelerated more and looked at the TCS display. It was slaved to the radar, and her fire control system fed the TCS the last good radar return it had picked up. Finally, she could see one of the tiny aircraft, the leader of the six skimming the water of Lake Michigan, caught in the little bit of moonlight. The silhouette was unmistakable: it was a Sea Harrier.

“Torchwick,” Blake growled, and hit the radio button. “Haisla, Ruby Four, tally-ho. I have six bandits at my one o’clock low. Classify lead aircraft as a Sea Harrier. It’s Roman Torchwick, Haisla.”

“Ruby Four, are you sure?”

Blake wished she could reach through the radio and throttle the radar operator onboard the AWACS. “Nobody else flies a Sea Harrier around here, Haisla! Do you want me to ask him?” There was no response. Blake swore again and rolled the F-14 so that she was nearly behind the formation of air pirates; Sun had swung out further, to clear her tail and loosen up the formation. The air pirates knew they were there, so there was no point in trying to hide any longer. As Blake watched through the TCS, four of the other aircraft—more F-5s, she noted—broke formation and turned into her. One was broadside to the camera for just a moment, and the weak moonlight caught it just right.

The outer wings were painted white, and on them was emblazoned a red stylized cat’s head with three claw marks behind it. Blake’s mouth went dry. “It can’t be,” she whispered. “It can’t be.” She frantically scanned the sky as Sun shouted at her that the F-5s were turning in her direction. “He’s not here,” she said to herself, feeling her heart pound. “Oh, thank God, he’s not here.” She saw the F-5s, and was suddenly filled with rage. _Not again. They’re not going to do this again. Not here._

“Ruby Four, engaging bandits.” Blake punched off her external tanks into the lake.

It fell to Sun to radio, “Haisla, Sun Lead, we’re engaging! Raid count is six bandits!”

A new voice came over the radio from the controller they had spoken to before. “Understood, Sun Lead. Beacon Control, Haisla, recommend you scramble the alert five.”

_Squadron Dispersal Area A_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_20 April 2001_

The air raid siren went off, startling Ruby out of a sound sleep. She had stood alert five duty once already, and it had been so boring it was as if sleep was encouraged. She stared at the loudspeakers for a second before Goodwitch’s voice announced, “Active air scramble. This is not a drill, this is not a drill.”

Adrenaline flooded Ruby’s body; her hands moved before her brain was not quite awake. She clipped her oxygen mask to her helmet, then tightened her harness, then started the inertial navigation system. The crew chief pulled the ladder away as she closed the canopy, then gave the signal to pull chocks. Once her ground crew was clear, Ruby moved up the throttle and taxied out of the hardstand. Behind her Weiss fell into formation with _Myrtenaster._ “Ruby Flight on alert five,” Ruby radioed.

“Ruby Flight, you are cleared for immediate parallel departure on Runway 03 Left and Right. Winds are steady, visibility unlimited, contact Haisla after takeoff. Good luck, Ruby,” Beacon Control replied.

“Roger, here we go.” Ruby pulled down her visor. “Weiss, combat departure.” Weiss clicked the mike twice in acknowledgement. She steered onto Runway 03 Left as Weiss lined up on Runway 03 Right. Normally, Ruby would have braked to allow Weiss to get centered, but this was real world, not a drill, so she merely slammed the throttle forward into afterburner. The F-16 leapt into the air.

Weiss did the same, but instead of the expected kick as both Eurojet engines lit their afterburners, the Typhoon abruptly stopped. All the lights went out in her cockpit and the engines spooled down. She filled the air with German curses as _Myrtenaster_ lost complete electrical power.

“Ruby, Haisla,” the AWACS called. “Bandits are 160 miles, bearing 310. Sun Lead and Ruby Four have engaged.” Ruby turned in that direction, thinking _Blake and that new guy with the ripped abs. What was his name again? Sunny? No, that can’t be it._ “Be advised that Ruby Two is an abort. Are you Charlie Mike?”

“Weiss?” Ruby wondered aloud. “Haisla, Ruby, what happened to Ruby Two?”

“Unknown, Ruby Lead. Just got the advisory from Beacon. Charlie Mike?” Haisla asked again, wondering if Ruby would Continue Mission.

_Damn,_ Ruby thought, _Weiss wouldn’t just abort because Blake and Sun are Faunus, would she? No way. Wonder what happened? Oh well—doesn’t matter._ “Ruby is Charlie Mike and supersonic. I’ll be there in six minutes.”

“Ruby, Pyrrha. Jaune and I are joining you on your left side.” Ruby turned her head. They were just bright diamonds, but her eyesight picked out the shapes of Pyrrha’s F-16 and Jaune’s Mirage 2000 coming towards her. 

“Pyrrha? What are you doing up here?”

“Jaune and I were doing a bit of night training. We’ve only got cannon, but we can help.” Live rounds were always carried on non-exercise missions; sometimes GRIMM slipped through the gaps in the barrier. 

Ruby would have to ask about that later as well. “More the merrier, Pyrrha! Haisla, be advised, Juniper Lead and Two are coming with me.”

A hundred and fifty miles north of Ruby, over Lake Superior, Penny Polendina heard the radio calls. She was orbiting at fifty thousand feet, nearly invisible to even the AWACS, which was not even aware she was there. She had taken off from Beacon two hours before to test some of the avionics on her B-1B. Her thumb hovered over the mike button on her control stick a moment before she touched it. “Penny to Test Control. Request permission to join the fight.”

“Test Control. Negative, Penny. You are instructed to maintain position and continue test.”

Penny hesitated again. Then she seemingly addressed open air. “Lancer, disengage from test program. Manual control.” The stick in her right hand tingled, letting her know that she was now flying the B-1. Then she touched the mike button again. “Test Control, Penny. Moving south.”

“Negative, Penny! You are instructed to maintain position!”

“I will not,” she stated simply.

There was an audible sigh on the line. “Ironwood won’t be happy, Penny, but…good luck.”

Penny smiled, and moved the throttle forward. Four shock diamonds spiked the night as the B-1’s wings cycled backwards for maximum speed. She headed south as a sonic boom rattled the windows of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.

The two sides were 20 miles apart when Blake fired one of her Phoenix. She deliberately fired it in a shallow dive without getting a lock. It would get the White Fang’s attention, but would not guide, except into the lake. “Brothers of the White Fang! I am Blake Belladonna!” she shouted over the open radio net. She was on Guard channel, an emergency frequency monitored by everyone. “Why are you aiding this scum?” She almost said _human scum,_ but that would probably not help the situation.

“This is Torchwick,” a new voice said, to Blake’s surprise. “Oh, little girl, didn’t you get the memo? The White Fang and I are on a joint business venture tonight.”

_That can’t be right!_ Blake thought with alarm. _The White Fang_ never _help humans, and never allow humans to help them. He’s lying, he’s got to be!_

Deep down, however, Blake knew Torchwick wasn’t lying. “Tell me what your little operation is and I won’t blow your ass out of the sky, Torchwick,” Blake replied.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say _little_ operation…kitty cat.” 

Blake’s alarm at Torchwick knowing her secret was not half as frightening as the next call from Haisla, whose radar had finally burned through the jamming. “Sun Lead, Ruby Four, be advised, raid count is now eighteen bandits.” 

“Oh, shit,” Sun called out. “Twelve bandits, six o’clock high.”

* * *

  
_Over Lake Michigan_

_Near Milwaukee, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_20 April 2001_

“Sun to Haisla! We’re engaged with eighteen, repeat eighteen bandits! We’re in deep shit!” Sun Wukong yelled out as he turned into the squadron of White Fang fighters. To his surprise, they were MiG-21s, ancient Russian hardware. He warned himself: there were still twelve of them, and one of him, and if the White Fang pilots were any good, they could still easily kill him. 

“Sun, Haisla. Help is on the way. ETA two minutes.” The controller aboard the E-3 AWACS fell silent, not wanting to distract the fighter pilots. 

Sun gritted his teeth. He hoped he could stay alive for the next two minutes.

At Beacon, Ozpin walked into the control tower. The radars here could track the dogfight, and it was better than sitting in his office listening over the radio.

He knew his plan had gone wrong. Ozpin had deliberately placed the combat air patrol further north than usual, then instructed Haisla to delay any attempts at interception, without telling them why. He had hoped that Blake Belladonna and Sun would have waited until the pirates were identified—once they attacked Milwaukee—and then waited for backup. He admitted that he had not anticipated his pilots’ aggressiveness, or the stupidity of Torchwick’s gang for switching on their jamming suites, which gave them away as enemy. Instead of catching the heist on the ground, or tracking them back to Torchwick’s hideout, a battle had developed. Worse, the White Fang was in much larger numbers than he had anticipated, and worst of all, Blake and Sun had thrown themselves into the fight despite being outnumbered nine to one.

He bent down behind one of the controllers. “Situation?”

“Not good, sir,” the controller answered. “Ruby Four and Sun Lead are right in the middle of that gaggle of enemy fighters. We have help on the way.”

“Good.” The situation could be salvaged. Even if his pilots stopped the robbery and inflicted serious damage on Torchwick and the White Fang, that was still a win, if not the outcome he had hoped for. “Who’s on the way?” Ozpin only saw three blips on the screen heading to the fight, but presumably more were below radar. Beacon’s radar was not as sensitive as the AWACS’. 

“Ruby Lead, and Juniper Lead and Two.”

Ozpin waited, but the controller said nothing else. “That’s it?”

“Yes, sir. The main taxiway was blocked by Ruby Two—she had a total electrical failure. We’re clearing it, and then we’ll surge everything.”

Ozpin resisted the urge to smash his fist into a nearby console. His plan was now completely unraveled. Again. “How long?”

“Five minutes.”

“ETA for Ruby and Juniper?”

“Three minutes.”

Eight minutes to get any more aircraft to the fight. “This won’t last that long.”

Blake quickly determined that the quickest way to regain the initiative was to decapitate her enemy, and to do that, she had to kill Roman Torchwick. In between her were five White Fang F-5s, but the pilots had committed to the attack too quickly. She shoved the throttle to the stops. The F-14’s wings raked back for maximum speed and she blew through the White Fang formation, leaving a sonic boom in her wake. The F-5s, out of position, turned to get back in behind her.

As the Sea Harrier crept into her gunsight, Blake had to admire Torchwick’s tenacity: he was still heading for the Milwaukee airport, now on the horizon. She dropped out of afterburner and tapped her speedbrake to slow down. _Gambol Shroud’s_ radar locked on, and Blake selected an AMRAAM. _Too easy,_ she thought. _Either Torchwick’s not all that, or this is…_

The Harrier suddenly broke hard right, and Blake saw Torchwick’s plan: she was still too fast, and would overshoot. She flung the Tomcat down and to the right, splitting her concentration between watching the Harrier and watching Lake Michigan, which was distressingly close. As it was, when she began to pull up, her engines left two wakes on the lake surface. In the split-second she was distracted by the black waters just beneath her, Torchwick made his second move: he rolled down and came straight at her. 

“Asshole!” Blake shouted, both at Torchwick for anticipating her maneuever and herself for executing it. The F-14’s wings were out, revealing to the world that Blake was out of energy and slowing down. She pushed the throttle up again, which saved her life. Torchwick’s 25mm cannon spit shells at her, but instead of hitting the canopy and killing her, nearly all of them ended up in Lake Michigan. Almost: _Gambol Shroud_ rocked with a hit. 

Sun adopted a similar attack to Blake’s: he went straight at the White Fang MiGs, as if heedless of a collision. He guessed that the White Fang’s pilots were inexperienced, and that this was probably their first dogfight. He was correct: most of them scattered. One, however, stayed on course, determined to bet his courage against Sun’s.

Sun smiled. A split-second before his opponent would have opened fire, Sun swung right, as if breaking off the collision course. The White Fang pilot turned for an easy gun kill, marching cannon fire the length of the Ching Kuo. Or would have, if Sun was still there: he suddenly rolled into a brutal eight-G turn. The G-suit squeezed Sun’s body like an enraged python, but there was no way the MiG could match the turn. Sun ended up behind the MiG and fired a Sidewinder. It hit the MiG halfway down the fuselage and blew the aircraft in half.

The radar warning receiver whined for Sun’s attention; a quick glance behind showed another MiG closing in. Sun broke right, rolled over into a high-G barrel roll, and leveled out: the White Fang pilot had tried to follow him through the break and failed. Another Sidewinder shot, and the MiG spiraled into the lake, trailing fire.

“Sun, splash two,” he puffed out as yet another MiG tried to drop in behind him. “Seventeen to go.” 

Blake wondered what had been hit, but no warning lights came on, so she hoped it had not been vital. She climbed hard, out of the fight, and once more came out of afterburner: her twin engines had trailed flame and were perfect heat signatures. Worse, the White Fang F-5s had gathered themselves and three were now coming after her; two had joined up with Torchwick, who had resumed his run towards Milwaukee. She snap rolled as a missile flashed past her, fired too late by one of the F-5s, and dived. The F-5s turned to follow, and Blake stabbed a button on her instrument panel.

Beneath the intakes of _Gambol Shroud_ were four small bumps. These opened and streamed thin, mile-long wires with a radar reflector and a flare on the end. At the same time, cameras scattered on the top of the Tomcat’s wing gloves snapped on. Suddenly there were now five F-14s streaking downwards. The F-5 pilots, rolling over to reacquire Blake, now had several targets. The pilots knew that there was only one F-14 a moment before, but their eyes and their radar was telling them there were now half a squadron of them. Two of them fired Sidewinders. Blake dropped flares, further confusing the missiles’ heat-seeking heads: one hit a flare and exploded; another struck one of the trailing flares. The hologram dissipated, only to reappear a moment later. 

Blake let the holograms distract the trailing F-5s as she accelerated. Her radar beeped as it locked onto one of the F-5s with Torchwick. “Blake, Fox Three.” Her finger stabbed the trigger. An AMRAAM fell from her wing and guided straight into the F-5, which exploded. The doomed White Fang pilot climbed, stalled, and fell into the harbor. 

Blake ignored the second F-5 and now locked on Torchwick. 

“Dammit, she’s persistent,” Torchwick hissed to himself. His raid had fallen apart again: there was supposed to be no opposition. Still, there was only two defending fighters, and the night was far from over. As his RWR shrilled to let him know the Tomcat had locked onto him, Torchwick again made a hard right break and headed for the tall buildings of downtown Milwaukee. “Go ahead, kitty cat!” he yelled. “Take the shot!”

“Why, you little bastard,” Blake murmured. She turned left and broke lock; there was too much of a risk that a missile would miss the Harrier and go into one of the brightly-lit buildings. She looked over her shoulder. The three F-5s were trailing her, and they could turn tighter than the F-14. Another one fired a missile, which tracked harmlessly into one of the holograms. 

Blake abruptly realized she had forgotten the other F-5 that had been with Torchwick. It had stayed low, skimming the docks of Milwaukee harbor, then climbed into her blind spot. She saw it rolling in for an embarrassingly easy missile shot into one of her engines, one that was not likely to be distracted by the holograms. _Dammit,_ she thought in disgust more than fear, _that bastard has me._ Suddenly the F-5 broke off and climbed, without firing. 

Blake didn’t question her sudden salvation and reversed the turn. As one hand gripped the stick, the other worked _Gambol Shroud’s_ instruments. The trailing wires were cut automatically by the computer to avoid damaging the F-14, but Blake’s quick button punches freed the computer to work its own program.

The F-14 holograms abruptly stopped following _Gambol Shroud_ and went off on their own. The Tomcat’s onboard computer, linked into the radar and the threat warning receivers, identified the two closest threats—two of the F-5s—and flew holograms directly at them. At the closing speed, the White Fang pilots found themselves with gigantic silhouettes of Tomcats coming directly at them. One panicked and dived, only to realize with horror a split-second later that they were too low: the F-5 flew into the lake and exploded. The other climbed away. The third prayed that the onrushing fighters were holograms and flew harmlessly through them—only to find the sky ahead was clear. The pilot scanned the sky and caught sight of another F-14 diving at them upside down; he hesitated for a moment, unsure if this was real or another hologram. Blake dissuaded the White Fang pilot a moment later as she rolled level and opened fire with her cannon. She also killed him, as the Vulcan cannon’s shells sliced through the cockpit and bisected the nose. The F-5 fell out of the sky into a shallow, terminal dive that ended yet again in Lake Michigan.

_Two left,_ Blake thought, _and Torchwick. The F-5s are the bigger threat right now, where are they, there, twelve o’clock, getting ready to dive._ Out of the corner of one eye, she saw the other F-5, but it was well to the west, over the city. _No threat for the moment, the guy above me is._ She pulled back on the stick for a head-on gun pass, but suddenly the F-5 above her vanished in an explosion. Blake dodged the falling debris.

“Ruby, splash one!” 

No one was sleeping in the city of Milwaukee tonight, as the trio of Ruby’s F-16, Jaune’s Mirage, and Pyrrha’s F-16 roared over the northern suburbs at nearly the speed of sound. Ruby’s AMRAAM shot had hit perfectly, and she dropped her tanks into the lake. She spared a quick thought for Jaune and Pyrrha—neither were carrying tanks, and they would be awfully close on fuel—but then other pressing things were at hand. 

“Pyrrha, Jaune!” Ruby shouted. “Go help Sun! I’ll help Blake!”

“Roger that!” Jaune replied. The Mirage and the F-16 curved away. 

Torchwick was in the middle of a long turn over the lake, trying to get back in the fight and searching for the F-14. His radar was picking up nothing, even though it was picking up his F-5s—or one of them now. He cursed, and checked the sky around him. To his surprise, a F-16 flew directly over him. In the split-second he saw the distinctive silhouette, lit up by the city lights, he saw the red wingtips. “Well, well, well, Little Red,” Torchwick said with no small satisfaction, “it’s past your bedtime.” 

Firing was as simple as raising the nose and pressing the trigger. Torchwick supposed he should just fire one AMRAAM, but as the first headed towards the F-16, he said, “Oh, why not,” and fired a second. 

The F-16’s RWR screamed in Ruby’s ears. _Missile lock! Where the hell did that come from?_ A split-second glance at the threat display showed RADAR in glowing red letters. Ruby slammed the throttle forward and climbed, then rolled hard, dropping chaff in her wake. The city lights of Milwaukee and the stars changed places dizzingly. One track dropped off her threat display as the AMRAAM chased a chaff cloud, but the second remained locked on. Knowing she had a second, if that, Ruby suddenly split-S and headed for the streets below. The missile, unable to compensate, could not follow, but its proximity sensor made the equivalent computer version of a shrug and detonated. 

Ruby felt _Crescent Rose_ shudder, but that was a problem for later. The immediate problem was that she was now staring at the amber-lit streets of a city rushing up to meet her. There would be no point in ejecting; she would never survive at this speed. It was pull out somehow or dig a very big crater in downtown Milwaukee.

Ruby pulled back on the stick with everything she had. _Crescent Rose_ groaned audibly as the airframe was overstressed. The afterburner howled as the F-16 hovered on the edge of a stall; the nose seemed to take forever to come up, although it was only actually half a second. Finally, _Crescent Rose_ aimed itself at the sky and climbed; behind Ruby, the afterburner had scored a long black streak down the center of Broadway. Glass, blown out of buildings, glittered down like snow.

Ruby puffed with exertion into her oxygen mask and wondered why the wind was so loud in the cockpit as she zoomed away from the city. Then she saw the small hole in the canopy, saw the tear in her flight suit, and felt the pain in her leg.

Sun was pleasantly surprised to find himself still alive. For two minutes, there had been no thought of kills; it was all he could do to keep from being killed himself. Still, it could be worse, he mused: despite having seventeen MiG-21s on his tail, only one could actually get into firing position, and the others were getting in each other’s way. Two had given up and flown west to help Torchwick, but that still left fifteen. He had expended another Sidewinder in a snap shot and missed; he was out of flares and chaff, and he suspected very strongly that the White Fang pilots knew it.

One of the MiGs closed into gun range: the pilot had already failed to hit the FCK-1 with two missiles, and was clearly determined to do the job right. Suddenly, it broke away and climbed. 

Despite herself, behind her oxygen mask, Pyrrha smiled. “Got you.” She had switched on her radar and locked onto the MiG-21 behind Sun’s Ching Kuo. The White Fang pilot had no idea all she had available was the gun. By climbing, the MiG was now a perfect, spreadeagled target. She pulled the trigger, centering the gunsight pipper just behind the cockpit. The shells hit the fuel tank right behind it and the MiG exploded. She rolled out of the way of the explosion. “Sun, Pyrrha. You’re clear.”

“Thank you, Pyrrha!” Sun replied. “Whew!”

Pyrrha spared a look at the burning MiG-21 as it spun flatly into the lake. There was no ejection. _And I have killed a sentient, living being,_ she thought. _Again._ Then she turned back into the fight.

Jaune had split up from Pyrrha; it seemed best, to make the White Fang believe there were far more than just three aircraft coming in as reinforcement. He stayed low while Pyrrha went high, the classic squeeze play, and accelerated towards the MiG formation. Ruby had disappeared, but there was no time to think of her.

Without warning, there was a MiG-21 in front of him. The two MiGs that had gone to help Torchwick had spotted Blake’s F-14 curving back to the south, in pursuit of the remaining F-5. They turned to intercept; neither had seen the Mirage, thanks to the MiG’s poor rearward visibility. 

“Jesus!” Jaune breathed. The MiG was right there. He pulled the trigger almost by instinct, and felt the Mirage buck as 30mm shells punched their way through the rear fuselage. It didn’t seem fair; Jaune insanely wished for a car horn, so he could honk at the MiG to get out of the way. The MiG staggered, stalled, and fell away behind him to crash; Lake Michigan was getting its fill of airplanes.

The second MiG pilot only saw her wingman disappear and deduced correctly there was something behind her. She broke left, but this only pulled her in front of the Mirage as well. Jaune’s fingers were still on the trigger, and the shells marched from the cockpit to the tail of the MiG-21. The fuel tanks touched off and the MiG exploded directly in front of him. There was no time to dodge: Jaune put his head down and flew through the explosion. Something rattled off his wings and the canopy, but he was through. He looked up through the canopy: one quadrant was starred badly, but the bulletproof windscreen had held. 

Two kills in less than ten seconds. _Holy God,_ Jaune thought. 

Torchwick stayed low as he cruised over the lake, and loudly cursed Sienna Khan, the White Fang, and whatever idiot had planned this operation. He was down nearly half his force, and now was facing five enemies—four, he corrected himself, since the red-tipped F-16 was last seen crashing into Milwaukee. _At least I’ve gotten_ some _revenge tonight,_ he thought. He swore as he saw yet another F-5 turn into a flaming comet, courtesy of Blake’s missile shot.

Still, it could be salvaged. There were still fourteen MiG-21s, and another F-5 around somewhere, plus himself. There were four enemy aircraft left, and the F-14 and the Ching Kuo must be low on fuel and ordnance. He did a quick 360-degree turn and an equally quick sweep with his radar: there was nothing there, so no more reinforcements. The raid on Milwaukee was a failure, but he could still put some blood on the walls. Sienna Khan, fool that she was, would still pay handsomely for the death of Ghira Belladonna’s daughter. 

Torchwick climbed, determined to gain control of the situation. He spotted a Mirage skimming the waves below him, flying in a straight line. “Hmm,” he mused. “Even these people must have nuggets.” He would kill the Mirage, then organize his MiGs and overwhelm the opposition.

Ruby tried to reach down to feel her leg, but the moment she moved her left hand, the throttle started moving backwards. Through her right hand, she could feel the stick twitching like it was alive. There was damage somewhere to _Crescent Rose,_ and the computer was trying to compensate. Her leg throbbed, and she could feel blood trickling into her boot.

“Ruby Lead, this is Penny. You’re at my eleven o’clock level; are you all right?”

_“Penny?”_ Ruby exclaimed. She looked to the right. Outlined against the Milwaukee suburbs was the unmistakeable silhouette of a B-1 Lancer, cruising towards her. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to help.”

Ruby shook her head, though Penny could not see her. A bomber would be a liability here: the B-1 was very fast and maneuverable, but it was still no fighter. It would be a big target. “Penny, no! There’s nothing you can do here!”

“Don’t worry, my friend!” Penny’s voice was high and confident. “I’m combat ready!”

The B-1 slid under her as Ruby, still fighting her F-16, yelled at Penny to stop. Penny ignored her and radioed the others. “Junipers Lead and Two, Ruby Two, Sun Lead, this is Penny; squawk flash.” She wanted to make sure the friendly aircraft had their IFF on. As she waited for a response, she spoke to the bomber. “Weapon bays open, deploy launchers.” Underneath the B-1, the weapon bay doors swung open.

All four checked their IFF. “Penny, this is Juniper Two,” Pyrrha responded. “We’re sweet.” Their IFF was on: in a swirling dogfight like this—the furball, as pilots called it—there was far too much chance for friendly fire, and it wasn’t as if the enemy didn’t already know where they were. 

“All friendly aircraft, dive away, please. I am weapons free.” She let go of the mike button and spoke to the bomber. “Activate DUST.” Her large HUD projected all the objects in front of her; it had trouble locking onto _Gambol Shroud,_ but Penny figured that was a feature rather than a bug. Her eyes roved over the radar returns colored red, for enemy, locking on with a mere blink. “This is Penny: Fox Three multiple,” she radioed, then to the bomber, said “Launch. All missiles.” 

From the weapons bays dropped two rotary launchers, each equipped with 12 AMRAAMs. The launchers spun in the airstream and then disappeared in smoke as each fired a missile every quarter of a revolution. Within five seconds, all 24 AMRAAMs were in the air and flying towards their targets: Penny figured that overkill was preferable to missing. Watching the missiles guide, Penny noticed that the blue targets were well clear. She smiled.

“Holy shit!” Torchwick screamed. So many missiles were inbound that it looked like a meteor shower. Only one was locked onto him, but that was bad enough. He forgot about the Mirage as he got as low as he could. The AMRAAM remained locked onto him, so Torchwick tried a desperation move. He swung the Harrier’s exhaust nozzles straight down and stopped in midair. The AMRAAM’s computer brain, which was locked on movement, suddenly lost the target and spun past the Harrier. Unable to acquire a new target, it flew harmlessly into the lake.

The White Fang were not as lucky. There were fourteen of them left, and 23 missiles inbound. Thirteen were hit, half of them twice. Only one MiG pilot managed to somehow evade as his brothers and sisters fell burning into the lake or exploded in midair. He was blown apart by Sun Wukong, who was not feeling particularly sporting. 

Torchwick watched the death of the White Fang, and cycled the nozzles back into normal flight and flew towards Michigan. “If didn’t have bad luck,” he sighed, “I’d have no luck at all.”

Ruby stared at the burning remains that had once been a squadron of MiGs. Penny’s B-1 made a shallow climb and turn. “Splash thirteen,” Penny called out, as if she was commenting on a sports score. “Haisla, Penny, confirm all bandits splashed?”

There was a stunned silence on the other end, then Haisla finally came online. “Er…confirmed, Penny. Scratch that; one bandit is heading southeast, bearing 020, distance 30 miles.”

“Roger. Penny is Winchester.” The empty launchers rose back into their weapons bays, which closed flush with the fuselage. She swung the bomber’s wings out to slow down.

“Haisla, Blake. We’ll let that one go,” Blake said. She could try a Phoenix shot, but the bandit—Torchwick or whoever it was—was already into the approach pattern of Chicago-O’Hare. A long-range missile shot probably would not track on an airliner, but Blake didn’t want to chance it. She looked at her fuel gauge. “I am at bingo.”

“We all are,” Jaune said. “Haisla, this is Juniper Lead. If it’s clear skies, we need to RTB immediately.”

“Juniper, Haisla. You are cleared to RTB. Coffee Flight is ETA one minute.”

“You didn’t leave anything for us, Juniper!” Fox Alasdair called out. 

Penny flew alongside Ruby; the B-1 made four of the F-16. “Ruby, Penny, your tail looks a bit messy. You’ve got holes in the main tail section and your horizontal stabilizers are a little ragged. Rudder is intact. Are you okay?”

“Stand by,” Ruby struggled out. _Crescent Rose_ was responding better, so she dared to take her left hand away from the throttle for a moment. The F-16 remained in the air, so Ruby took off her glove and reached down for her flight suit pants leg. Her foot felt squishy inside the boot and her leg soaked, and she felt faint. If the wound was too bad, she would have to eject; there would be no way to fly back to Beacon. 

Ruby expected to see a calf coated in red blood, but to her surprise, there was only a tiny bit of blood, and just a little fragment of metal sticking out of the pale skin of her leg. She had cut herself worse shaving her legs. Ruby gingerly reached down into her sock and pulled away her hand: it came back wet, but not with blood. It hadn’t been blood she felt trickling into her boot, but sweat. She stared at the hand for a moment then began to laugh. It was not a cheerful laugh, but rather a thank-God-I-am-alive laugh.

“Ruby, Penny. Are you okay?” Penny repeated.

“Yeah. Yeah, Penny, er, affirmative. I’m okay.” Ruby held up her hand to the canopy. “Will you look at that?”

Penny had no idea what to make of it, so she threw Ruby a thumbs up. “Glad you’re okay, my friend!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The FCK-1 Ching Kuo is a real aircraft. Its actual designation is F-CK-1, but that looks like a censored cuss word, so I just wrote it as FCK-1. Angels is altitude, so angels 4000 would be 4000 feet above ground level (AGL). Haisla actually is a real AWACS callsign (or was when my dad worked with them). The part about the F-14's wings sliding forward when it's out of flight energy is also true--instructors at Top Gun could watch that on student F-14s (and you can see it in Top Gun during Maverick and Viper's epic fight). 
> 
> Sun Wukong's fight with the MiGs is based on Ran Ronen's epic fight with about 20 (!) Egyptian MiG-21s during the Yom Kippur War, while Jaune's quick fight is based on a real incident between a F-105 Thunderchief and a MiG-17 in Vietnam. Similarly, the part about Ruby thinking she was bleeding to death, but only just sweating, is also based on a true story--Mick Martin of 617 Squadron (the famous "Dambusters") took a hit in the nose of his Lancaster during the war and thought he'd lost the leg. Turns out it was just a fragment.


	20. Nothin' But a Good Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pilots come back to a heroes' welcome at Beacon. And for fighter pilots, that means a lot of drinking and crazy events associated with too much to drink. 
> 
> Yep, it's party time at Beacon. Will Ruby survive her first real brush with alcohol? Will Yang and Blake drink each other under the table? Does Weiss even drink? And why is Nora...naked?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is just silly. I love writing silly stuff (most of what I write is comedy, after all), and I had a blast writing this scene. No food fight in this story, so hopefully these older versions of the students at Beacon getting hammered off their butts will be an adequate substitute.

_Squadron Dispersal Area A_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_20 April 2001_

_Crescent Rose_ taxied into the hardstand, easier than Ruby would have thought. She shut the engine down and began to unstrap as the canopy opened. Her hands shook so badly that she could not get the straps off; her crew chief, after setting the ladder, helped her. “Are you all right, Lieutenant?” he asked. He saw the hole in the canopy.

“Yeah. I’m okay. She was a little hard to control.” To Ruby’s embarrassment, once all the straps, and radio and oxygen connections were removed, the crew chief picked her up and gingerly carried her down the ladder. 

Yang was there, and her broad grin was replaced by concern. “You okay, sis?”

Ruby nodded. “I’m fine!” she exclaimed. “Just a bit of shrapnel. Chief, you didn’t have to do that!” The big sergeant shrugged. Ruby limped over to look at the tail. The horizontal stabilizers were mostly intact, but the rear edges were shredded and pitted. The tail was the worst: a fist sized hole was punched directly through it, obliterating the BN tailcode and data block. The rudder was all right, and so was the engine. Ruby felt sick. She had been extraordinarily lucky not to lose the aircraft. In her mind’s eye, she saw the streets of Milwaukee hurtling up at her again.

“You okay?” Yang repeated. She saw her sister turning pale.

Ruby put her hands on the Sidewinder still fastened to the port missile rail. “Just got the hell scared out of me.” She took a deep breath. “Yang, Dad would not approve, and technically it’s illegal in the state of Wisconsin, but I think I want to drink tonight. Heavily.”

Yang clapped her on the back. “C’mon, kiddo. Let’s go see how Blake is doing.”

As they walked away from _Crescent Rose,_ Ruby remembered. “How’s Weiss?”

“Mad as hell. Her plane died on her. Complete electrical failure. She ended up blocking the main taxiway. That’s why we didn’t get everyone in the air for five minutes.” She motioned at her own flight suit. “I didn’t even get _Ember Celica_ to the runway before they told us to stand down because the fight was over. But hey—at least one of us got a kill tonight.”

Blake’s F-14 was in its hardstand and already had the canopy open. Yang and Ruby had acquired a crowd as they approached the Tomcat; the crowd split as Sun Wukong shut down his FCK-1A. The pilots and ground crew erupted in cheers as Sun stood triumphantly in his seat and held up three fingers. 

Blake was beneath the huge Tomcat, checking out the damage to _Gambol Shroud._ In the week that they had known her, Yang and Ruby had never heard Blake curse much, but now there was some extremely bad language coming from both the Faunus girl and her Navy plane captain. As Yang and Ruby got close, they saw Blake and the plane captain staring at _Gambol Shroud’s_ tail. Normally, there was a “beaver tail” that stuck out between the F-14’s engines, which held the rear navigation light. The light was gone, along with the beaver tail, which was nothing more than a ragged hunk. “You got hit?” Ruby asked.

“Yes, goddammit,” Blake snarled. Yang noticed that, despite the stress of the dogfight and a damaged aircraft, Blake had taken the time to make sure her bow was on securely. “That fucking Torchwick! He almost blew my fucking ass off!”

“He almost got me too,” Ruby said, quietly. 

Blake's anger evaporated. "Are you all right?" she asked Ruby. 

“Who cares!” Yang shouted. “You both got back! How many did you get?”

Blake suddenly noticed that a crowd had gathered around the F-14, and there were a lot of expectant eyes looking at her. She blinked and suddenly found something fascinating about her boots. “Four,” she said in a barely audible voice. “I got four.”

Yang didn’t know why Blake was being so subdued, but she repeated the number louder for the crowd. Another cheer went up. Yang reached out and grabbed Blake, quickly followed by more hands, and to her acute agitation, Blake found herself hoisted onto the shoulders of one Yang Xiao Long. Sun was being carried towards her, still holding up three fingers on one hand. Blake could read his lips as he asked a question, unheard over the din, and despite herself, held up four fingers. 

“Yay, Blake!” Ruby yelled. “Yay, Sun!” Her fear and the pain in her leg was forgotten in the excitement. 

“Get up there too, Ruby!” Yang ordered, and before she knew it, Ruby was up on the shoulders of Sage Ayana of Sun Flight. The crowd turned and started heading down the flightline, still cheering, yelling, and letting out friendly curses and war cries. They were carried past _Myrtenaster_ , back in its hardstand, inspection panels open. Over one was bent Weiss, and Ruby called out, but Weiss studiously ignored the crowd as she and her ground crew pored over what had happened to the Typhoon.

They passed the final set of hardstands, where Jaune’s _Crocea Mors_ and Pyrrha’s _Milo_ was parked. “Yeah, you too, you crazy bastard!” Ruby heard Yang yell, and she saw a stupidly grinning Jaune being carried on the shoulders of Lie Ren. “No, no, no!” she heard Pyrrha protesting, and then—fighting all the way—she too was carried aloft, this time by Nora Valkyrie. To Ruby’s surprise, the normally affable Pyrrha was not smiling; in fact, she wore an expression of distinct sadness. With one thunderous cheer, the crowd resumed their march towards the base proper. Ruby kept looking around, but there was no sign of the B-1.

They were stopped halfway there by a solitary figure: Ozpin. The cheers suddenly died and it grew very quiet. Ozpin stood with both hands on his cane. “Well,” he said clearly, “it seems we have had one hell of a night here at Beacon.” The crowd erupted again until Ozpin waved them to silence. “Between these five pilots, there were eleven victories scored tonight. The raid by the Torchwick Gang and the White Fang was stopped cold.” More cheers. 

“Sir!” Ruby waved for his attention. “What about Penny?”

Ozpin adjusted his glasses. “Sadly, Lieutenant Polendina is unable to return to Beacon tonight. There’s nothing wrong with her or her B-1,” he assured Ruby, “but she was ordered to land at Grissom. She sends her regrets and says she will see you later.” To the crowd, Ozpin said, “And it’s a shame, because Lieutenant Polendina is to be awarded with 13 victories tonight.” A wave of awestruck shock went through the crowd at that. 

“Three cheers for Penny!” Ruby shouted.

“HER! HER! FUCK HER!” To any other crowd, it would have been the height of insult, but to fighter pilots, it was the highest expression of honor. 

Ozpin put up his cane again for silence. “In honor of the extraordinary feat of airmanship committed by Major Nikos, Captain Wukong, and Lieutenants Rose, Belladonna and Arc, there will be no classes tomorrow…” He raised his voice to be heard over the din “…and the Officers’ Club is open for celebration!” Ozpin stepped out of the way to avoid being run over as the crowd stampeded for the Officers Club, still carrying the five victorious pilots. As they rushed past, he smiled. “Well,” he said to himself, “not exactly what I had planned, but it worked out just fine. And if Haisla was able to track that last F-5...”

The night was young, the pilots were young, and it was time to party. 

_Building 111713 (Officers’ Club)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_21 April 2001_

Weiss walked down the steps into the Officers’ Club—the basement portion of it. Above ground, the club held beautiful mahogany tables, a raised dais for formal functions, a thick shag carpet, banners showing the various units permanently assigned to Beacon, and a large mirror. Dress uniforms were the order of the day, strict protocol was followed, dinner was ordered from a beautifully apportioned kitchen, and curse words were not to be spoken aloud. 

After having the tables destroyed, the banners torn down and the mirror broken on too many occasions, the basement wine cellar and storage area was turned into the “stag bar” for fighter pilots. There, the tables were made of stronger oak, the floors were Formica, and there was no mirror to be broken. There was, on the other hand, a very heroic bar. Here, unlike in the staid Officers’ Club for formal dine-ins and occasions, fighter pilots could show up in anything they damn well felt like wearing—usually flight suits—protocol was forgotten, bar snacks and frozen pizza was the best one could get, and cursing was every other word. 

Luckily, fighter pilot bars were similar the world over, no matter what language was spoken, so Weiss was used to the revolting language, the awful smell of stale beer and cigarettes, and the general dank atmosphere. When she reached the base of the stairs, someone slapped her back and pressed a cold beer into her hands. Weiss accepted it without comment, snapped off the top with her bare hands, and took a deep drink. She winced; American beer was so weak. 

In one corner of the room, a 1950s-era jukebox screamed out Electric Light Orchestra’s _Mr. Blue Sky_ and was ignored by the pilots, who were all engaged in conversation and mock dogfights. Weiss had noticed in her interactions with American fighter pilots that their musical tastes fell into two categories: those who loved country music and those who complained that country music was essentially the same damn song. She searched for Ruby Flight. In the middle of the room was Sun, describing and embellishing his epic fight for survival. His tail held his beer, leaving his hands to swoop around to describe the battle better. She spotted Ruby Flight, at a table in the corner opposite the jukebox. Weiss moved in that direction.

At last, Weiss made it to the table and took a seat. It was a little quieter here. Ruby, Blake and Yang sat in a semicircle. In front of Yang, who had her feet up on the table, were four bottles, three of them empty, but the blonde showed no signs of being drunk; she was smiling at Ruby. Blake, who had three bottles in front of her as well, did not look any different than normal either. Ruby, on the other hand, was staring at a drink glass filled with what Weiss recognized as a White Russian, with a stunned look on her face. Weiss tossed off the last of her beer and signaled for another from one of the hardworking waiters. 

“Hey,” Yang said. 

“Hello,” Blake said.

“I drink milk,” Ruby mumbled.

Weiss smothered a laugh. “Are you drinking that, Ruby?”

Ruby hesitated for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Yep.” She reached out and drank about half of it. She then gently set down the glass and resumed staring into space.

Weiss got her beer and used an opener thoughtfully attached to the table to open it. “So I hear you got four, Blake. Well done.”

Blake shrugged. “I guess.” At Weiss’ raised eyebrow, Blake gave another shrug. “They were White Fang, Weiss. I may not be with them anymore, but I might’ve just killed someone I used to know.”

“They might’ve killed you,” Weiss told her. “Did they hesitate? Something tells me they know that Blake Belladonna drives a F-14.” 

Blake opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, and took a drink instead. Yang did the same, then leaned back dangerously further. “So, they figure out what was wrong with _Myrtenaster?”_

“No. Not yet.” Weiss’ fingers tightened around the beer bottle. “A complete electrical failure shouldn’t be possible in the Typhoon. There’s quadruple backup systems.” That thought was good enough for another drink. “It’s not possible,” she repeated. “My crew chief is going to tear _Myrtenaster_ apart to find out what happened.”

“It’s electronic. It can fail.” Blake signaled for another beer. “Girls, I feel the need to get extremely drunk tonight. How about you? Ozpin gave us the day off tomorrow.”

Yang lifted her beer. “Hear, hear,” Yang replied. She noticed that Ruby had not lifted her glass. “Rubes?”

“Huh?” Ruby turned to look at her. Her silver eyes were glazed. “Uh, yeah. Bring ‘em on.” She drank the rest of the White Russian, and raised her hand unsteadily to the waiter. “That was goooood. I think I’ll have another one. Waiter! White Russian! It’s got milk!”

Yang suddenly regretted letting Ruby drink. Ruby had never touched alcohol, aside from a sip of beer their Uncle Qrow had once let her try; Ruby had nearly thrown up at that. The White Russian had been bigger than the norm, and apparently, unlike certain other members of her family, Ruby Rose was a lightweight. “Er, Ruby, maybe you shouldn’t have another. I mean, you drank that one on an empty stomach, and—“

Ruby stood up. “You listen to me, Yang! I’m a grown friggin’ woman!” She slapped her chest. “See? I got boobs! And I’m a frukmothering ace! You ain’t an ace, are you? Don’t have no kills except stupid ass GRIMM.” She collapsed back in her seat, and slumped. “Stupid Yang, runin’ my fun…”

Weiss leaned across and patted one of Ruby’s hands—the one still on the table. “Your sister’s just looking out for you, Ruby. You’re not used to this stuff, and—“

“You my mother?” Ruby shot back. “You can’t be, because Mom was cuter than you! Ha!” The White Russian arrived, the waiter fled, and Ruby sank half the drink in one gulp. “I’ll show you. I’ll show you _all._ ” Ruby got to her feet, and marched over to where the biggest knot of pilots were. None noticed her approach, since they were more interested in Sun’s conclusion of the epic dogfight and his description of Penny’s multiple missile massacre, so Ruby stood on a table and shouted, “Hey, fighter pilot assholes!”

Conversation ceased, and all eyes were on her. There were shocked expressions to say the least. Ruby was not aware of it, nor was Ruby Flight, but the majority of the pilots at Beacon saw Ruby as a little sister—one to be protected, and certainly not one that would be standing on tables and cursing. At twenty, she was the youngest pilot on base. Now that she had their attention, however, Ruby put her plan into action. “You guys want to see a special game my Uncle Qrow taught me?”

“Oh shit,” Yang said, and got to her feet. Special games taught by Qrow could be anything from throwing darts while standing on one’s head to stripping buck naked and singing the National Anthem. 

“Whazzat?” Velvet Scarlatina had made the mistake of telling the humans that a Faunus could outdrink any of them. One of her ears was now flopped over, as if it had independently decided to pass out. “I wanna play!”

Ruby nimbly jumped to one of the smaller tables. “Okay, put those big tables together!” 

Blake covered her eyes. “Oh God. I know where she’s going with this.”

Yang finished her beer. “So do I, and it’s super awesome!” She ran over to help with one of the tables.

Weiss shook her head. “I really feel like I’m contributing to the deliquency of minors. What are they doing?”

Blake didn’t reply, mainly because Ruby spoke first. “It’s time for some carrier landings!” Now the pilots knew what she was talking about, and a cheer went up. Blake stood up—a trifle fast, and she weaved a little—and motioned for Weiss to follow. 

The tables were now put together, and beer was poured over them to make them slick. “Who wants to go first?” Ruby asked. Before anyone could stop him, Sun pressed a beer into her hands, and Ruby dutifully took a drink. To Yang’s surprise, she smacked her lips loudly and repeated her question, so Yang raised her hand. “I’ll do it!”

“No!” Ruby stomped her foot. “You’ll just ruin the fun, fun ruiner!”

“I’ll go,” Yang threatened, steel in her voice, “or I swear to God, the saints, and President Shawcross I will do a Big Sister Boob Check right here in front of everyone, Ruby Rose!”

“Yang’s up first!” Ruby shouted. There were some groans of disappointment. 

As Weiss watched, half in fascination and half in horror, Yang was blindfolded and led to the entrance by Coco Adel. “Now,” Ruby declared with weighty importance, “we need a landing singals…a OSL…a guide!”

“She means LSO,” Neptune Vasilias said, and stepped forward. “I’m the only member of the Navy here, so I’ll do it.”

Weiss pointed at Blake. “But she’s a Marine.”

Neptune gave her a pitying smile. “The Marines are merely a _department_ of the Navy, my dear.”

“Yes,” Blake replied. “The _men’s_ department.” There were some hoots and catcalls at that. 

Ruby drank more beer. “Shut up and let Neptune do his thing with his thing and things!”

Seeing that Ruby was starting to become more incoherent by the moment, Neptune took command. “Very well! Yang, I’ll guide you in. Listen very carefully to my instructions, now. When I say ‘cut,’ you drop onto the table, okay? You’re coming in for a night landing—and the deck is pitching up and down! Spin her around, Coco!” Yang was dutifully spun around four times. “Now go!”

Yang shook her head and nearly fell over. “I need some jet noise! I’m not gliding this bitch in!” Everyone made engine noises to varying degrees of noise level and accuracy. Yang nodded and ran for all she was worth at the tables. “Steady, steady!” Neptune called out. “Right! Right!” Yang turned to the right a bit. “You’re in the groove, call the ball!” Yang, being Air Force, had no idea what that was. “Cut!”

Yang threw herself forward, arms out like wings. Weiss gasped, sure that she was about to see her friend crash headfirst into the side of a table. Yang managed to clear the edge and belly-flopped onto the slick tables, sliding down the length of them. Midway down the table, Fox Alastair and Scarlet David held three knotted towels across the table, acting as the arresting wire. Yang dropped her feet to catch the “wire”—a fraction too late. Instead of being stopped, she careened off the end of the “carrier” and crashed to the floor. Heads turned in alarm, but Yang rolled to her feet, took off the bandanna, and bowed. “Ta-da!”

“Aaand you’re dead. You suck, Air Force,” Neptune laughed.

“You wish, Navy,” Yang returned.

“Yay, Yang!” Apparently all was forgiven from Ruby. “Who’s next?”

“I’ll go. I must uphold the honor of Ruby Flight.” Blake began to walk towards the entrance and Coco. “Unless you wanted to go, Weiss. To uphold the family name?”

Weiss almost snapped back, but saw the smile on Blake’s face, and took it for the joke that it was meant to be. “No thanks,” she replied. “I wouldn't want to show you up.”

Blake was blindfolded, but she did not run at the tables. Instead, she merely walked. Neptune smiled. “Checklist!”

“Three down and locked, flaps full, hook down,” Blake called out. She lined up with what she figured was the way to the table. 

“Left, left,” Neptune called. “Power, power!” Blake increased her speed to a jog. “Looking good, jarhead, call the ball.”

“One-zero-zero, Tomcat ball, fuel…” Blake shook the beer bottle she still held in her hand. It was almost empty. “…fuel critical.”

“Roger ball,” Neptune replied. “You’re in the groove, but you need more power!” Blake moved up to a run, throwing her arms behind her. “Cut!” She threw herself forward like Yang had, and cleared the table edge. She scooted down the deck for a second, then dropped her feet. Her boots easily caught the towel. Cheers and applause erupted as Blake rolled off the tables, took off her blindfold, and threw Neptune a dazzling parade-ground salute. “Your grade, LSO?”

“Nice work, Lieutenant. Three-wire.” Blake grinned: a three-wire, the third wire of four on a carrier, was considered the sweet spot for landing. 

“Yay, Blake!” Ruby drank the rest of the beer and threw the bottle to one side. Luckily, it bounced rather than shattered, and skipped across a table to be quickly fielded by Ren, who was frantically searching for Nora.

Weiss gave a short nod. “Very well! I will uphold the honor of the Luftwaffe!” She marched towards Coco as the pilots began singing a very off-key version of the German national anthem. As they blindfolded Weiss, however, Nora suddenly appeared at one end of the “carrier.” One green eye was opened wide, the other was half-closed: Nora could not be bothered with drinking beer, but had consumed three Irish Coffees before Ren could stop her. Now she was not only rather tipsy, but also very caffeinated. “Hey, Weiss!” she yelled out. “You wanna do a carrier landing on a damaged carrier?” Before anyone could ask, Nora pulled out a bottle of lighter fluid and sprayed it on the tables. She then struck a match, but was grabbed by Ren and a suddenly sober Velvet before she could light the tables on fire.

Weiss and Coco looked at each other, shook their heads, and burst out laughing. “I don’t see Pyrrha in this melee,” she asked the Iraqi pilot.

Coco shrugged. “She left almost as soon as we got here. She snagged two bottles of ouzo before she left, though. Guess she wanted to celebrate on her own. Strange woman. Great pilot, but strange.” Coco held up the blindfold. “You going to land on the carrier, or can I give it a go?”

Weiss pointed to her eyes, and smiled as Coco tied on the blindfold. As the engine noises started up again, Weiss remembered that she hadn’t seen Jaune, either.  
  


By 3 AM, the party was starting to wind down. Glynda Goodwitch had timed her arrival for that moment. 

To her pleasant surprise, the debauchery wasn’t quite as bad as she’d feared. The carrier landings had ended an hour before, when the pilots got bored and Ruby had passed out. She was lying on a table, legs dangling over the edge, arms folded over her chest; she looked happily dead. Someone had put a folded flight suit under her head. Most of the pilots had drifted off after a game of Dodge the GRIMM, which consisted of trying to run from one side of the bar to the other while everyone else threw beer bottles at them. Luckily it had been done against the far wall, so Glynda’s boots did not crunch on glass. 

In one corner, Sun was now in his seventh retelling of the dogfight, though Glynda was amused to see that he was now describing how he fought off fifty White Fang, and his audience consisted of a sleeping Neptune. Coco lay curled up in another corner, while in another, Velvet and Scarlet lay unconscious, their arms around each other. In the last corner sat Weiss, Yang and Blake. Weiss, sipping on ginger ale, was the only one still upright. Yang and Blake were collapsed over the table, surrounded by shot glasses. When Weiss saw Glynda, she stood and walked over to the bar. “Still sober?” Glynda asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Weiss replied. “Only had two beers. I’ve been sipping on this ever since.” She held up the can of ginger ale. 

“Glad someone showed some responsibility.” Glynda motioned at the other three members of Ruby Flight. “What happened to them?”

“Ruby had two White Russians and two beers. First time drinking. Yang and Blake decided to have a contest over who could drink the most tequila shooters. Yang won, but she passed out right after Blake.” 

“And what’s this?” Glynda pointed to the bar. Atop it, lying face down and her bottom covered with a bar towel, was the naked form of Nora Valkyrie, snoring away contentedly. 

“Oh, yes. Nora consumed three Irish Coffees and four beers, got up on the bar, and announced that she didn’t, and I quote, know any tricks or anything, so she would just strip for everyone. And she did, completely. Ren tried to stop her, but he couldn't get to her in time, and well…” Weiss shrugged. “Ren was able to find a towel, and she passed out on her front, at least. Not really passed out, just sort of subsided.”

“That’s inaccurate, Oberleutnant Schnee,” Glynda snapped.

“Ma’am?” Weiss asked, wondering if Glynda had been drinking as well.

“You said Lieutenant Valkyrie was naked, but she is not.” Glynda pointed at Nora’s feet. “She’s still wearing her socks.” 

It took a moment for Weiss to realize that Glynda had made a joke. They stared at each other for a moment, then burst into laughter. It was the only sound in the room: Sun had finally joined his wingman on the floor. Weiss wiped her eyes. “Well, ma’am, I think the party has concluded. Ren went to go get some clothes for Nora. I don’t know how I’m going to get these three home.”

“I’ll help you,” Glynda said. “It certainly isn’t the first time I’ve had to do this. There was a time over in Norway back in ’83 when Ozpin, Ironwood and Qrow…” She stopped herself just in time. “I can get Lieutenant Belladonna, if you get Captain Long, and—“

“—and I can get Lieutenant Rose.” Cardin Winchester stepped into the bar. 

In the end, it was Weiss who dragged Ruby behind her, both of the smaller girl’s arms over her shoulders and her legs half-tucked over Weiss' hips. She wheezed under the dead weight of her wingmate. Glynda was having no easier time with Yang, who had revived enough that she was dragging Glynda the width of the sidewalk, singing _I Want It That Way_ by the Backstreet Boys at the top of her lungs. Cardin carried Blake in his arms like she was a baby; Weiss had heard that Cardin pumped iron on a regular basis. 

They were nearing the FOQ; Yang was now belting out the _Macarena,_ except that she didn’t speak Spanish and didn’t really know the lyrics. “Thank you for doing this,” Weiss puffed out.

“It’s all right. I used to do this for my mother when she got on the booze.” Cardin shrugged. “Besides, I was told by Colonel Goodwitch up there that I needed to perform an act of contrition to be let back in the bar. I figure carrying Miss Leatherneck here was good enough.” 

They went inside and Weiss abruptly realized she was going to have to drag Ruby up a flight of stairs. Cardin sniffed, threw Blake over one shoulder like she was a sack of potatoes, then lifted Ruby onto the other. Weiss nodded her thanks, straightened up, and heard her back pop alarmingly. Cardin carried both women up the stairs. Ahead of them, Glynda and Yang had reached Ruby Flight’s dorm room: Weiss could hear Yang angrily inform Colonel Goodbitch that she could open her own damn door, fuck you very much. “Why do you hate Faunus so much?” Weiss suddenly asked Cardin.

“Direct, huh? I like that about you.” He slapped Blake’s rump. Weiss abruptly realized that Blake’s ribbon had come off somewhere between the bar and the dorm; there was no way Cardin had not noticed her ears. “It’s simple, actually. The White Fang killed my father. Not in a dogfight, either—he just happened to be eating in a café in Berlin that they felt like blowing up.”

Weiss remembered her own opinion of the White Fang. “They’re not all like that. The Faunus, I mean.”

“With all due respect, Oberleutnant, I really don’t give a flying fuck.” Without another word, Cardin carried them into Ruby Flight’s dorm room. With surprising gentleness, he deposited Ruby in her bed—Weiss noticed that Cardin had figured out which one was hers. Glynda had gotten Yang in bed, except that she was actually in Blake’s; Yang was out cold the moment her head hit the pillow, a beatific smile on her face. Cardin’s face lit up with unholy joy, and with a chortle, he put Blake into bed next to Yang, with the same gentleness he had shown Ruby, to Weiss’ surprise. Glynda frowned, but said nothing, just motioned him out of the room. “Good night, Ice Queen,” he said over his shoulder.

“Good night, asshole,” Weiss smiled back. Cardin only laughed and closed the door. As she stripped out of the reeking flight suit she wore, Weiss remembered still hadn't seen Jaune. Or Pyrrha. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nora getting naked and passing out on the bar is inspired by a similar scene in Stephen Coonts' "Flight of the Intruder," down to the part with her socks. Given that Coonts mostly wrote about real events that happened to him while flying A-6s in Vietnam, it probably actually happened. As far as "Carrier Landings" go, a tamer version showed up in the movie of "Flight of the Intruder," but the version I'm describing comes from my dad, who saw fighter pilots doing exactly as described. (It can also be found in Mark Berent's superlative Vietnam novels--I think in "Phantom Leader.")
> 
> Fighter pilots do these things. They are crazy people. So, by the way, is yelling insults at someone to compliment them (though that's not limited to fighter pilots). But thank goodness we have them.
> 
> The next chapter is full of Arkos goodness...but it's not a particularly happy chapter. Poor Pyrrha.


	21. Bittersweet Symphony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaune finds Pyrrha, and what he finds isn't pretty. The Invincible Girl isn't, and Pyrrha hides a terrible secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the hardest chapters to write of this series, but we all have our demons, and they tend to appear at the worst possible time. 
> 
> Make no doubt about it, Pyrrha is my second favorite character in RWBY, behind Blake--and it's a very close second.

_Building 91213 (Female Officers’ Quarters)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_20 April 2001_

Jaune looked around furtively and walked into the female officers’ quarters. It was well after 1 AM, and he was violating all kinds of regulations even being here. Still, he didn’t hear anyone, and all the female pilots he knew on base—aside from Glynda Goodwitch, who didn’t live in the FOQ—were at the party. Except one.

He went up the stairs and knocked on the door to the female half of Juniper Flight’s dorm room. He and Ren had been here before to meet the girls. There was no answer, so Jaune knocked again. There was still no answer, so he tried the doorknob. The door was unlocked.

The room was the same size as Ruby Flight’s, but more roomy since there were only two beds and two occupants. Jaune could instantly tell which side was Pyrrha’s and which side was Nora’s—the former was pressed, clean and ready for inspection; the latter looked like a bomb had hit it. The room also smelled of strong liquor.

Jaune glanced to his left. In one chair at the small table on her side of the room, Pyrrha was sprawled. Her flight suit was unzipped, showing a generous amount of cleavage, but Jaune was not interested in that—well, he was trying not to be, anyway. He _was_ interested in the fact that Pyrrha’s face was streaked with tears, and held loosely in one hand was a bottle of ouzo. She had not even bothered with a glass, and was drinking in what the Greeks called dry hammer—straight from the bottle, without food to mitigate it. Half the bottle was gone. Another bottle lay on the table, empty. Her eyes were closed.

“Pyrrha?” he asked quietly.

Pyrrha’s eyes opened slowly. “Jaune?” she whispered. She blinked, then seemed to come to her senses. “Jaune!” She tried to stand, slipped, and fell to one knee on the carpet. Pyrrha’s hair halfway came free from its ponytail to fall over one side of her face. She tried to get up again and failed. The bottle rolled away, leaking some of the ouzo onto the floor. “ _Thee mou ochi…_ don’t look at me like this, I’m sorry…”

Jaune ran to her, kicking the door shut behind him. He helped her to a sitting position. “My God, Pyrrha, what are you doing?”

Pyrrha weaved slightly, her eyes unfocused. “I was…getting drunk. Very drunk.” She reached for the bottle and offered it to Jaune. “Want some? It’s from home.”

He gently took it away from her; Pyrrha did not resist. “No, thanks. But why here?” He tried a smile. “Pyrrha, if you want to get drunk tonight, that’s fine, but don’t do it alone.”

Pyrrha shook her head. “Don’t want…people to see me…don’t want people to ask…why...” 

“Huh? We’re all celebrating.” He thumbed at himself. “I got two tonight, Pyrrha. See? All that extra night flying training you’ve been giving me is paying off.”

Pyrrha looked up at him. Her lips trembled and she burst into tears. Jaune, thinking to himself that he would never, ever understand females of any nationality, just held her as she turned and buried her face in his chest. He hesitated, then stroked her hair. 

After a few minutes of letting Pyrrha bawl into his flight suit, Jaune asked, “C’mon, Pyrrha. This isn’t you. You’re not like this!”

Pyrrha suddenly leaned back and slapped Jaune. There was no force behind it, but it still rocked him. Then Pyrrha realized what she had done, cupped Jaune’s reddened cheek, and began crying again. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry.” 

Jaune shifted his position so she could lean up against him. “It’s okay, Pyrrha. I grew up with seven sisters. I’m used to a girl hitting me.” The levity was lost on her. “Please, tell me. What’s bothering you? Why are you getting drunk all by yourself?”

Pyrrha put her face in her hands. “I can’t tell you, Jaune.”

“Hey, if it’s top secret, I won’t tell anyone. Remember? You know _my_ secret.” Jaune remembered. “Oh. This is about Crete, right?” He cursed himself silently. _Of course it’s about Crete, you stupid ass. She lost her whole squadron._ “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

Pyrrha was quiet for a long time, but then she said something that, had the room not been completely silent, Jaune would’ve missed. “I killed them all.”

Jaune stared down at her. “Pyrrha?”

She nodded as if to confirm to herself. “Yes, I did. I killed them all.”

“Your squadron?” He shook his head. “C’mon, Pyr! That’s just the ouzo talking. You didn’t kill your squadron, the air pirates—“

“I killed the air pirates.” Pyrrha’s voice became a growl, and her face screwed up into an expression of utter, terrifying hatred, so much that Jaune involuntarily scooted away from her. Pyrrha spun around and advanced on him on hands and knees, a look on her face so predatory that Jaune wondered if the Greek girl was possessed. “I _killed_ them, Jaune. They killed my squadron, so I killed them right back.” She nodded again, a death’s head grin on her face. “I made sure of it. When they bailed out, I shot them in their parachutes.” Her grin suddenly faded, and Pyrrha seemed confused. “It’s strange, Jaune…to realize…” She touched her arm, as if feeling it for the first time. “To realize…how _soft_ the human body is. To see what a twenty millimeter shell does to it. Sometimes there’s just a pink mist, and sometimes…the body comes apart. Like a rag…” Pyrrha suddenly turned green and she fought down a gag.

Jaune moved fast. He got an arm around her waist and half-dragged, half-carried her to the bathroom. He had barely gotten her head over the toilet before Pyrrha vomited. Jaune pulled her hair back into its ponytail as Pyrrha continued to throw up, shuddering and shaking. After a few minutes, there was nothing left in her stomach, so Jaune grabbed a towel—seeing the monogram on it, he thought _sorry, Nora—_ and handed it to Pyrrha. She took it gratefully, wiped her mouth, flushed the toilet, and leaned back on the cool tile floor. He leaned back next to her, ready in case she needed to be carried back to the commode. 

Pyrrha sighed. “I’m…not much of a drinker, Jaune.” 

“Me neither. I’m not a very good Frenchman.” Actually, Jaune could hold his liquor quite well, but this was not the time to be competitive. 

“You see, I was late.” It took Jaune a moment to realize Pyrrha was talking about Crete. “My F-16—not _Milo,_ but another one—suffered a navigation system failure. The pirates were going to attack Heraklion; it was the biggest raid in decades. My squadron was the closest, so they were ordered to go without me. It was the right thing to do, but our radar…they didn’t know it was twice as many pirates as normal. There were eleven of my people up there, but there were twenty pirates. My boys and girls got some of them; the ground SAM operators got a few more. By the time I got there, there were still ten pirates left, and none of mine. It was at low level over the water, like tonight, so none of mine got out. Eleven men and women. I don’t know if any of them got out, if they died in high-speed ejections, or were killed when they hit the water, or they drowned. But none survived. Aristotelis, Nikoletta, Aleka, Evdokia, Dimitrios…”

“Pyrrha, please!” Jaune pleaded.

Pyrrha acted as if she had not heard him. Jaune wondered if she had. She was staring into space, her green eyes blank and dull. “…Markos, Georgios, Gianni, Tasia, Aniketos, Spiro. All gone. So I shot down all of the pirates that were left. And if they bailed out, I gunned them in their parachutes. It wasn’t easy saving enough ammunition to do it, but I managed. I am very good, you see. So good that the Hellenic Republic awarded me their highest honor, the Cross of Valor, gave me a parade, even put me on a cereal box.” Jaune tensed, as Pyrrha looked sick again, but she didn’t throw up this time. “I think there’s even a statue of me somewhere. Pyrrha Nikos: the female Achilles of the Air, the Invincible Girl. Some victory,” Pyrrha snorted. “If I had been there, Jaune,” she said, acknowledging him for the first time since he’d dragged her into the bathroom, “some of them would’ve survived, at least. But I wasn’t, and they died. And then, I committed murder.”

“They were pirates—“

“They were still human beings.” Pyrrha began to cry again, but this time it was almost without noticing; two tears slowly trailed down her already stained cheeks. “I told myself I would never take another human life again, Jaune. I know it was a foolish promise, given our line of work. But I thought I would only fight GRIMM. And now, tonight, I killed someone else.”

Jaune leaned his head back against the bathroom wall. In his mind’s eye, he replayed the dogfight. Had either of his victims survived? It was not likely. Like in Pyrrha’s fight near Crete, it had been over the water. He had seen his shells go through the canopy of his second kill. The first one might have gotten out, but Lake Michigan in April would kill in minutes. Jaune doubted that the White Fang would have bailed out in any case. _They probably had orders not to be taken alive._ Jaune’s hands twitched. _Who’s the leader of the White Fang? Sienna Khan. That’s right; it’s not Blake’s father, he left the organization. Sienna Khan. Dieu, I’d like to kill_ her _right now. Not right to order someone to die like that. Weiss was right: the White Fangs are fanatics. But still…I’ve killed as well. Blake was right. It’s murder._ Despite that, Jaune could not feel the same level of guilt that Pyrrha was obviously experiencing. _They would’ve killed me if it was the other way around. That Torchwick guy was angling for a shot on me when Penny opened up. Would they have felt guilt for killing me? Are the White Fang even capable of that anymore? Stop it, Jaune,_ he commanded himself, _would you rather be dead and innocent, or alive and guilty?_

“I think I killed some people tonight too,” Jaune admitted, after awhile. Pyrrha did not respond, and when he looked over, he realized she had passed out. Her head was resting on her chest. “Damn,” he sighed.

They could not stay in here. With some effort, he got his hands under her shoulders and got her somewhat to her feet. She woke up enough that she was not completely dead weight, and luckily—though he did not look it—Jaune was actually fairly strong. He was able to get Pyrrha to her bed and deposit her on it. Gently, he took off her boots and socks. Jaune was tempted to leave at that point, but then saw her flight suit, stained with sweat, vomit and ouzo. “I can’t leave you like this,” he said aloud. With a lot of effort and grunting, Jaune got Pyrrha’s flight suit off. It was like trying to peel a banana, except that the banana was alive and occasionally moved. Jaune was fervently glad for three things: one, that Pyrrha was not like Yang a few days back and wore underwear under her flight suit; two, that Pyrrha’s underwear was functional rather than sexy; and three, Nora was nowhere near the room. Jaune was sure that his life would be measured in very painful seconds if the diminutive A-10 pilot was to walk in. Jaune was a gentleman, but not so much so that he didn’t notice that, even sweat-plastered and reeking of booze, Pyrrha Nikos was still quite beautiful, with an athletic body that anyone would desire. Right now, however, Jaune just wanted to make sure she was all right. 

He turned her over on one side so, if she threw up again, Pyrrha wouldn’t choke. Then he drew the covers over her. “You poor girl,” Jaune whispered. “You’ve just about had enough of all this, haven’t you? In the morning you’re going to have a hell of a hangover, but drunk or sober, you’re a wonderful, beautiful person, Pyrrha.”

Jaune switched off the lights and headed for the door, pausing to take the ouzo with him. As he opened the door, he heard Pyrrha mumble, “I heard that, Jaune.”

“It’s okay, Pyr,” Jaune smiled. “I meant it. Good night.”


	22. Baby Did A Bad Bad Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after: Yang wakes up in bed with Blake, Weiss is expecting a guest, and Ruby finds out why underage drinking is bad. Meanwhile, Roman Torchwick takes stock, and finds some silver linings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of a short chapter--it's kind of a setup for the next few chapters.

_Cleveland Downtown Airport_

_Ruins of Cleveland, Ohio Dead Zone, United States of Canada_

_21 April 2001_

Roman Torchwick took a drink of red wine from the bedstead, stood naked in front of the window blinds, and watched the sunrise play over Lake Erie. From this angle, everything looked pristine, as he was facing north; the ruins of Cleveland were south, behind him.

No one could explain why the Soviet Union had nuked Cleveland, Ohio. There was nothing strategic there, no particular war industry that anyone could remember, other than the steel industry. Some said that the Russians had actually targeted Akron and missed; others said that the Russian battery commander in Cuba had it in for the Cleveland Browns. The two megaton warhead hadn’t even detonated in Cleveland proper, but in Shaker Heights to the east. It still devastated and flattened the city, and killed over 230,000 people outright. Thousands more had died over the next few weeks, and those structures that had survived the destruction were abandoned due to radiation. As far as anyone in the Remnant of the United States was concerned, Cleveland was a radioactive hellscape best to be avoided.

Which made it perfect as a hideout. In actuality, the nuclear explosion had been an airburst, so radiation had faded for the most part over the next few years, but there were a lot of people who wanted to avoid government notice. Radiation stories were circulated, tales of terrifying monsters worse than GRIMM roaming the ruins of Ohio, of mutants with strange powers lurking in the woods, and people avoided Ohio like plague—which was another rumor started in the area. It suited the USC government to spend money rebuilding elsewhere, and thus the Ohio Dead Zone became a hideout for all kinds of criminals, including the Torchwick Air Pirate Gang. 

Torchwick had hideouts all over the place, but Cleveland was his main base of operations, and he gloried in the fact that it was right under the government’s nose. 

He finished the wine and turned. One pink eye and one brown one stared back at him. “Enjoying the view, Neo?”

Neo Politan nodded and smiled. She sat up in bed and stretched languidly. As the covers fell to her waist, Roman also nodded and smiled at the view of naked breasts. Neo wasn't particularly well-endowed, but Roman liked to tell her that what was there was choice. “Ah, Neo, you can make even a disastrous night better.” 

She shrugged modestly. Roman returned to the bed, looked at the wine bottle, and noticed it was just about empty. At Neo’s outstretched hand, he gave the bottle to her, and took stock. “Things could be worse,” he said aloud. At her raised eyebrow, he said, “It could! We lost nothing last night, really. My Harrier is intact, and the only ones who lost aircraft were the White Fang. If that idiot Sienna Khan wants to keep throwing money after bad, then Junior will keep providing her aircraft.” Roman got under the covers next to her and put his arm around Neo. “I told her that hitting Milwaukee was too ambitious. Yes, getting a lot of DUST modules at once would be good, but Beacon is too close. Not when we could’ve just kept hitting shipments from Germany.” He sighed. “Oh well. Our gang is still intact, and that’s what counts.” 

Neo nodded happily, set aside the bottle, and held out her arms. Roman grinned, pushed his orange hair out of the way—Neo Politan was too good of a view to be blocked—and embraced her. They kissed deeply and Neo leaned back onto the pillow in invitation. Roman Torchwick was many things, but a fool was not one of them. He crawled on top of her.

Without warning, the door to the bedroom opened. “How very disappointing, Roman.” 

Roman hung his head. “Worst timing ever.”

“Fuck,” Neo added disgustedly.

Roman looked over his shoulder. “I wasn’t expecting to see you guys so soon. Enjoying the view?” The covers had been pushed out of the way, and there was nothing for either Roman nor Neo to hide. 

Yellow eyes glowed at him from the darkness. “I have seen better.”

“You were the one who suggested working with those mutts.”

“And you will continue to do so. We have big plans for you, Roman. All we ask is a little cooperation.” The woman stepped into the light. “And I don’t appreciate my people being called mutts,” said Sienna Khan. 

_Building 91213 (Female Officers’ Quarters)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_21 April 2001_

Yang Xiao Long slowly woke up. First, her ears began to pick up sounds. Second, her eyes fluttered open and focused on the bed above her. Third, she registered there was a rather warm body next to her. 

_Whoa,_ she thought to herself. _Did I go to bed with someone? I mean I’ve done that before after a night of drinking…something Dad does_ not _know about…but no, I don’t think I did, because I’m still wearing my flight suit._ And _my underwear. Wait. Is that_ my _bed?_ After a few moments, Yang realized she was indeed staring at the bottom of her own bed. _That means…_

Hesitantly, she looked to her right. Nestled next to her, curled up appropriately enough like a kitten, was Blake Belladonna. “Huh,” was all Yang could think of saying.

“Good morning.” Weiss Schnee was sitting on her bed, brushing her hair. She was dressed in a freshly pressed uniform. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah, actually I did.” Yang glanced back at Blake, then back to Weiss. “Uh, I don’t suppose you know, but did Blake and I…”

Weiss smiled slowly. “As tempted as I am to say that I caught you and Blake having extremely sloppy lesbian sex all over our room, my honor as an officer and a lady compels me to say that all you and Blake did was drink too much.”

“For the record,” Blake said, her eyes still closed, “it would not have been sloppy.”

“The way you two were drinking?” Weiss raised an eyebrow.

Yang shrugged and got out of bed. “Meh. I’ve dated worse.”

Blake stayed in bed, but used the opportunity for a good, full-body stretch. “So have I.” She worked out a kink in her shoulder. “That’s strange. I don’t have a headache or anything.”

“Me neither,” Yang added. “I didn’t know sleeping with a Faunus cured hangovers.”

Blake snorted. Weiss thumbed towards the bathroom. “Then we need to introduce your sister to one. She’s making up for all of us.”

Yang rubbed her face. “Oh, geez.” She stood up and walked slowly to the bathroom. 

Blake decided not to get out of bed. “How are you feeling, Weiss?”

“I’m fine. I didn’t get drunk.”

“But you’re German.”

Weiss gave Blake a dirty look. “Contrary to popular belief, Lieutenant Belladonna, not all Germans are heavy drinkers. And I have my reasons not to drink.”

Blake dropped the subject. Given the tone of Weiss’ voice, this was not a topic she wanted to discuss. “You’re not going to tell me you dragged all three of us home.”

“I dragged Ruby home. Colonel Goodwitch barely got Yang home—I doubt Yang remembers singing Backstreet Boys songs all the way back. Badly. Or calling the good Colonel a lot of bad words.” Weiss tied up her hair in its ponytail. “As for you, you have Cardin Winchester to thank. He carried you here—literally.” She sniffed a sardonic laugh. “Though I would not read too much into it. He was doing it so Goodwitch will let him back into the officers’ club.” Weiss inspected her face in the mirror, picked up a tube of lipstick, and began carefully applying it. “By the way, he knows you’re a Faunus.”

Blake cradled her head in her hands. “Wonderful. My ribbon come off?” Weiss nodded. “Shit. Well, I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later.”

Weiss touched up her lipstick. “Given how unpopular Cardin is, I suspect the base is more on your side of the argument.”

Blake sniffed at the armpits of her flight suit, wrinkled her nose, and took it off. Deciding that Weiss wouldn’t care if she did cartwheels in the nude, Blake stripped and put on fresh clothes. “I’d grab a shower, but something tells me the sisters are going to be in there for awhile.” She motioned at Weiss, who was carefully checking her makeup. “Bit early for a date.” 

“Oh, it’s not a date.” Weiss, satisfied, stood. “My sister is coming in today.”

Ruby Rose lay in her underwear on the floor of the bathroom. Her face was the color of Yang’s F-15—gunship gray—and her silver eyes looked like two nickels lying on a red blanket. She did not get up as her sister walked in. “Kill…me…” Ruby moaned. 

Yang knelt down and pulled Ruby’s head into her lap. “It’s too early in the morning to mercy kill my sister.”

“Yang,” Ruby said weakly, “I’m sorry. Please tell Dad and Zwei that I love them very much.”

“I’ll pass that along.” Yang brushed her sister’s hair. “I’m the one who should be saying they’re sorry. I never should’ve let you drink.”

“I’m an adult, you know.”

“I know. You reminded me last night. I believe you mentioned 'I have boobs and everything.'” Yang kissed her forehead. “But you’re always going to be my little sister, you know that?”

“Yeah.” Ruby rubbed her eyes and quickly wished she hadn’t. “I think I remember most of last night. I didn’t do anything _really_ bad, did I? I don’t remember anything bad.”

“Other than call me names, no.” At least Yang hoped not. Ruby had passed out a good deal before Blake and Yang had started their drinking contest, and the night was a blur after that. “I guess Weiss got us home.”

“Weiss is a good person.” Ruby reached up and stroked her sister’s cheek. “Yang, I love you very much.”

“Aww…I love you too, Rubes.”

“Which is why you need to get me over the toilet, because I’m gonna throw up again.”

Yang smiled and helped her, because that was what sisters did. While she stroked Ruby’s back as her sister emptied what remained of her stomach into the commode, she resolved that it would probably be a good idea to never let their dad know about this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Neo talks in this story. She won't talk very much, and most of what she says will be filthy. It's OOC, but it would also be very hard to be a combat pilot if you're mute.


	23. Everybody Wants to Rule the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weiss welcomes her older sister Winter to JRB Beacon, but accompanying Winter is General James Ironwood, who is here to talk to Ozpin about the Battle of Lake Michigan. The US government expects an uptick in GRIMM attacks, and they're reacting to it. But are they overreacting?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winter Schnee arrives--much earlier than she does in canon RWBY, but I love Winter too much not to get her to Beacon early.

_Transient Aircraft Ramp_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_21 April 2001_

Ozpin and Glynda Goodwitch watched as the B-52 Stratofortress landed. Stratofortresses plural, Ozpin reflected: this was the last of four. The ramp would be full.

It was a majestic aircraft, the B-52. One of the few prewar aircraft still around, it continued in service because the USAF had yet to figure out how to replace it. Many a GRIMM ground attack had been stopped by a cell of B-52s raining bombs from on high; even a Deathstalker was helpless against the storm of steel B-52s could bring. Ozpin watched as the final bomber taxied to its position and stopped, its bulbous nose only a few feet from where he and Goodwitch were standing. The old bomber—the youngest of them were pushing fifty years old—seemed to sag slightly, as if grateful for a chance to rest itself. On the nose beneath the cockpit were crossed revolvers. 

“Wonderful,” Goodwitch groaned. “It _is_ him.”

“I told you.”

“Do I have to be here?” she asked as the B-52’s engines wound down. 

“James did ask this to be strictly informal.”

“Good. I have paperwork to do.” She saluted him, spun around on one heel, and marched back towards Beacon’s terminal. Ozpin smiled and shook his head, then turned as the crew door at the bottom of the B-52’s forward fuselage opened. A moment later, a remarkably tall man bent nearly double to leave the aircraft, his graying hair plastered to his head, the product of a long flight under a helmet. His flight suit was an older type and worn, but on each shoulder, in black thread, were three stars. Both men came to attention and saluted, then shook hands.

“Captain Ozpin,” Lieutenant General James Ironwood said.

“General.” 

Ironwood motioned to the much shorter woman who had climbed down after him. “Captain, I believe you’ve met Oberst Winter Schnee.”

“I have.” Ozpin exchanged salutes with the elder Schnee sister. Winter was taller than her sister, about seven years older, and unlike Weiss, who looked younger than 21, Winter looked older. Her features were beautiful but severe; Ozpin was reminded of an iceberg. They also shook hands. “Welcome to Beacon, Oberst.”

“Thank you, sir.” Instantly, Winter was at parade rest, her hands at the small of her back. Her gray flight suit was immaculate; only the slightly flattened bun of her silvery hair betrayed that she had been sitting in a cockpit for the past ten hours. 

Despite her calm exterior, Ozpin thought he could sense just the slightest bit of impatience in the pale blue eyes. “I believe your sister is waiting for you inside the terminal, Oberst.”

Winter’s eyes shifted briefly to Ironwood, who gave her a short nod. “Thank you, sir.” She then strode towards the terminal on long legs. 

Ozpin motioned for Ironwood to follow, and they began walking to Ozpin’s office. “She’s quite young for a colonel,” he commented.

“She’s quite good for a colonel,” Ironwood replied. “She’s been given command of _Jagdgeschwader_ 73\. After she led Operation Hammerfall last year, the Luftwaffe wanted to give her Operational Forces Command, but she’s too junior.” A small smile. “And she wants to keep flying.”

“And her father?”

Ironwood shook his head. “Not here,” he warned.

Weiss tried to stop her heart from hammering, and tried to keep her posture as she waited for her sister. Though she would not admit it under torture, Weiss greatly looked up to Winter Schnee, and spent her life trying to match her big sister’s achievements. Certainly Winter had been more of a role model than… _no,_ Weiss snapped at herself, _don’t think about that._

“Weiss!”

Weiss could not stop a ridiculously large smile. Winter stood at the entrance to Beacon’s small receiving terminal. The younger Schnee ran towards her sister, but skidded to a halt at the disdain on the elder’s face. Still, Weiss couldn’t help but exclaiming happily, “Winter!”

“No salute? Have you so quickly forgotten to the proprieties of the military traditions?” Winter’s voice was clipped, Prussian German. 

Weiss immediately crashed to attention, executing a salute that cut the air. “Sorry, Oberst Schnee!”

Winter returned it with equal crispness. “Stop apologizing, Oberstleutnant Schnee.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

“Very well. I would like a full report on your missions here at Beacon, including the battle last night. I shall also need to inspect your living quarters. I’ll not allow my sister to remain in any abode that’s up to code.” Winter fought down a protest at that; if Winter saw Ruby Flight’s quarters in their present state, she would likely have Ruby up on court-martial charges for reckless endangerment of a fellow officer, not to mention conduct prejudicial to good order and discipline. 

The two sisters stared at each other for a moment, then Weiss’ smile returned. “I’ve missed you, Winter.”

Winter’s icy exterior cracked, just for a moment, with a smile of her own. “I’ve missed you as well, _kleine Schwester._ ”

Ozpin poured a cup of coffee for Ironwood, then added a small dollop of brandy. “You still take your coffee this way?”

“It is a bit early in the day, but I suppose it’s happy hour somewhere.” Ironwood took a sip, nodded in satisfaction, and inspected some of the photos on Ozpin’s office wall. He chuckled. “Good Lord, Strike Flight. How those four did not kill each other I’ll never know, but they were some of the best I’ve ever seen.” He walked over and took a seat across from Ozpin’s desk. A groan escaped his lips. 

“Are you all right? Your arm?” 

“Just the rain. Your knee is bothering you, I imagine.”

Ozpin nodded. “We’re getting old, James.”

“Old age and treachery will defeat youth and vigor every time, Oscar.” Ironwood held up a hand. “Ozpin. Sorry. I forgot you’re not fond of your first name.”

“Bad memories, my friend.” Ozpin set aside his cane and levered himself into his seat. 

“I understand Taiyang Xiao Long’s daughters are here.” 

“They are. Yang Xiao Long was selected for training by the 33rd at Eglin, and I arranged for Ruby Rose to come here as well. She deserved something for singlehandedly preventing the Torchwick Gang from hijacking a DUST shipment. The first time,” Ozpin amended. “There’s been four other attempts since—two were successful; last night’s was not.”

Ironwood looked at Ozpin over his coffee. “Which you engineered.”

“I don’t follow,” Ozpin replied.

Ironwood laughed. “The hell you don’t, Ozpin. Once a spook, always a spook. You may have left ONI forty years ago, but you’re still playing spy games. I read the report on the way in—Vale Air Defense faxed it to me while we were over the Atlantic. Your CAP was way the hell further north than it was, you ordered Haisla to not report the Torchwick Gang’s approach to Milwaukee so Sawyer or Scott wouldn’t scramble their alert five, and then you ordered them to delay Lieutenant Belladonna and Captain Wukong. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you even engineered Oberleutnant Schnee’s complete mechanical failure that blocked your runways for five minutes.”

Ozpin stared daggers at Ironwood. “I had nothing to do with that, James.”

“I know you didn’t,” Ironwood replied. “Old Man Schnee arranged that little stunt.” He took another drink of coffee. “Unfortunately for your plan, Belladonna and Wukong managed to disrupt Torchwick completely, Lieutenant Rose got in the air before the runways got blocked, two more of your pilots—Major Nikos and Lieutenant Arc—just happened to be in the air, and—“

“And your Lieutenant Polendina came in to massacre the White Fang.” Ozpin leaned back in his chair. “Let’s not forget your own involvement, James.”

“Polendina had orders not to intervene. She disobeyed those orders.”

“I thought she was incapable of disobeying orders.”

Ironwood finished the coffee. “She’s not a robot, Ozpin. Just works with them.”

Ozpin did the same. “So, you came all this way to chew me out.”

Ironwood shook his head. “It was a halfbaked plan, Ozpin, but it worked. Haisla lost the sole surviving F-5 over Chicago, but Cricket out of Yeager picked them up over the northern Ohio Dead Zone. It landed at Cleveland Downtown Airport—which is supposed to be too damaged and irradiated for use.”

“Air pirates are known to use those areas as cover.” Ozpin motioned to the four B-52s squatting on the tarmac, outside of his office window. “So you plan on flattening them? I imagine four B-52s would make quite the impression.”

Ironwood sighed. “I’d like to, but the CIA’s warned me off. Seems they have a deep cover agent embedded in the Torchwick Gang. All I could get out of them was that their source is codenamed ‘Camo.’”  
  
“Not again.”

“Unfortunately. I wasn’t made privy to why, especially since Torchwick’s already murdered two flight crews, but you know how spies work—more than most.”

“I can find out. I still have contacts at Greenbrier.” Ozpin steepled his fingers. “Out with it, James.”

“Officially, I’m here to observe the Vytal Flag exercise. You’ll be entering the guest seminars soon, and those aren’t to be missed.” Ironwood flashed a smile. “The biggest gathering of fighter pilots in the world. I understand they’ll be televised this year.”

Ozpin said nothing at first. He was not pleased with that decision, but it had come down from the President. While he agreed that the North American taxpayer needed to see where their money was going to, he did not want the vulture media hovering over his pilots’ shoulders while they engaged in very realistic training. Vytal Flag was known to kill distracted pilots, and not just in simulation. “Unofficially?”

Ironwood stood and walked back to Ozpin’s photographs. “If you hated that, you’re really going to love this.” He turned to face Ozpin. “Before I left to visit Germany, I had an hour long meeting with General Luna. He’s sending the better part of the 1st Armored Division up here from Fort Benavidez in Texas. They won’t be using Beacon, of course, but the division headquarters will set up here. You have the best communications setup.”

“What the hell for?” Ozpin rarely showed his temper, but he did now. “We may not be at peace, James, but we are _not_ at war! Having several thousand Army troops roaming around Wisconsin is going to give the wrong impression.”

“Luna’s being cautious, Ozpin. So am I. It’s not the Torchwick Gang we’re worried about. It’s the GRIMM.”  
  
“I disagree. The Torchwick Gang _is_ something to worry about. The GRIMM attack two weeks ago was not that unusual.”

“You weren’t the only one who got Qrow’s message. Did you know that we’ve lost thirteen Hunters and Huntresses in the past three months?” At the expression on Ozpin’s face, Ironwood knew the other man had not. “About half over Europe, and half over the Pacific Northwest.”

“Yet GRIMM attacks are down,” Ozpin protested.

“Which is _also_ worrisome. Luna believes that there will be a major attack on the Remnant’s borders somewhere soon. If it makes you feel better, the 4th Infantry Division at Carson and the 40th Infantry Division at Socorro have also been moved up to the border of the Nevada and Arizona Dead Zones, and Mexico’s putting their army on heightened alert as well. It may be nothing, but Luna thinks it’s the calm before the storm.”

“And you, James?”

Ironwood put his hands behind his back. “I agree with General Luna, except I think the attack is going to be made here. At the Mississippi River Barrier. I think the GRIMM attack that was made a few weeks ago was a probe.” He dropped his voice. “And you know why she’d be interested in Beacon.”

Ozpin did not reply at first, and when he did, his voice was barely a whisper. “She doesn’t know about the Fall Maiden being here, James.”

“Do you want to stake your life on that, Ozpin?” This time there was no reply at all. “The 1st Armored will be commanded by General Baum. He’s a bit old fashioned, but he’ll do. In any case, Luna and the President have given me operational control of all forces in the Vale Air Defense Sector. Oberst Schnee is my EU liasion, though I don’t know if she’ll be here for all of Vytal Flag. Finally, I’ll be moving my B-52s to O’Hare—you’re going to need the tarmac space for the guest flights.” 

Ozpin still didn’t say anything. Ironwood waited, but after the silence became uncomfortable, he said, “I’ll show myself out, Ozpin. You don’t have to like this—I don’t. But you do have to accept it.” The general turned and left the office.

Ozpin spoke to an empty office. “No, I don’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, a little more RWBY Chibi references. Sometimes that show is better than canon RWBY.
> 
> There is no Fort Benavidez in Texas; in this universe, Fort Hood was renamed for Roy Benavidez, Jr., one of the most decorated men in US Army history.


	24. Cold As Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter Schnee meets the rest of Ruby Flight...and she doesn't seem terribly impressed. But she does know why Weiss' Typhoon experienced electrical failure: sabotage. But who did it and why?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing Winter. I'm a bit worried about her as we hit the halfway mark on Season 7. 
> 
> For those of you who are old school anime fans (very old school), you will recognize the name of Weiss' crew chief.

_Building 91213 (Female Officers’ Quarters)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_21 April 2001_

Winter Schnee stepped into Ruby Flight’s quarters. Weiss cringed as her sister’s ice blue eyes swept over the room. It was neat, at least, with clothes put away—or at least hidden from view—and, to Weiss’ surprise, the carpets were newly vaccuumed. The window was open to let in some fresh air, and the three other members of the flight were dressed in working uniforms. They were lined up as if for inspection: Weiss was happy to see that Ruby did not look more than three days dead and Yang’s hair was nicely brushed, rather than her usual finger-in-socket look. The creases in Blake’s uniforms were sharp enough to cut someone with. 

Still, there was no disguising the bed situation. Weiss began to introduce her friends, but Winter stepped past Ruby and examined her bed. “Who is suicidal enough to sleep under this guillotine?” she snapped.

Weiss closed her eyes and let the sword fall. “Me.”

Winter’s eyes rounded. “You are serious.” At Weiss’ nod, she turned and tested the ropes. Ruby’s bed swayed but held. “I did not realize you had a death wish, sister.”

Ruby opened her mouth to answer, but Weiss silenced her with a glare. “It was…efficient for the amount of space.”

“Unacceptable. Either Captain Ozpin will assign you new quarters or I shall lodge a formal protest.”

Blake stepped in. “Colonel Schnee, would you like some coffee?”

Winter graced Blake with a glacial stare. “In a moment,” the elder sister said in a tone that implied it would be the ultimate sacrifice on her part. “It was a long flight from Germany, and I have need of the facilities.” Weiss motioned to the bathroom, and Winter left.

“Weiss,” Ruby asked quietly, “not to be insulting or anything, but…why is your sister such a bitch?”

Weiss ignored the question. “What happened here?” she whispered urgently. “This place was a wreck when I left!”

“We cleaned up,” Yang replied. "Duh."

“When you said your sister was coming,” Blake explained with a sidelong glance at Yang, “we had a feeling she was an older version of you. So we did a quick cleaning.” She pointed to the sideboard. “Luckily, I have some gourmet coffee stashed away, rather that stuff Yang brews—“

“I’ll have you know that my coffee is hecking great!” Yang protested.

“Your coffee could clean an engine,” Blake said evenly. Yang stuck out her tongue. “In any case, we did the best we could, Weiss.”

“Thank you.” Weiss’ eyebrows suddenly beetled together. “What do you mean, ‘older version of me’?”

At that point, Winter came out of the bathroom and Weiss shut her mouth. Blake pulled out a chair for her. Winter sat; Ruby thought if the elder Schnee’s back was any straighter, it would snap out of sheer tension. She folded her hands in her lap as Blake poured all five of them a cup of coffee. Winter sipped her coffee primly, and turned her stare on the table. “Must you slurp like a savage?” It was addressed to Weiss, but clearly intended for everyone, since only Blake was not slurping.

Once they were finished, Winter gave Blake a nod. “My compliments, Lieutenant Belladonna. The coffee was quite good—though I should mention that it is traditional in Germany to provide a small cake to go along with the coffee. Of course, this is the United States and not Germany.” She managed to make the observation sound like an insult. Yang’s fingers tightened around her cup. As Blake was putting the dishes in the sink, Winter asked, “Might you be related to Ghira and Kali Belladonna, Lieutenant?”

Weiss silently prayed that there would be a GRIMM attack, or Torchwick would raid the base, or a tornado would suddenly appear. As for Blake, her Faunus blood served her well as she managed to catch the cup she dropped. She took a deep breath, and decided Winter would not have asked that question if she did not already know the answer. “Yes. My father and mother.”

“Ah. How interesting that my sister is rooming with the daughter of the founder of the White Fang—“

Yang had enough, but as she leapt to her feet, prepared to let Winter have it, it was Weiss that cut her off. “That’s enough, Winter.” 

Winter’s head whirled in Weiss’ direction like a turret on the back of a Deathstalker, but Weiss stood her ground. “What did you say?” the elder Schnee questioned.

“You heard me. That’s enough.” Weiss stood as well. “Winter, I love you more than life itself, and I deeply respect you and your rank. But these are my friends, and this is our home, and I will not tolerate you insulting them, or this place. I have chosen my path, and if that includes sleeping beneath a bed that could crash down on me at any moment—“ Ruby raised a finger at her engineering skills, but thought better of interrupting “—and rooming with the daughter of the founder of the White Fang, then that is my choice. I thought you had accepted that choice. If our positions were reversed, you would feel the same way.”

Winter got to her feet. “If that is the way you feel, dear sister...”

“It is.”

“Good. I am glad to hear it.”

Weiss was prepared to launch into a further defense of her friends, or more likely, escort her sister to the door, and was taken aback by the sudden agreement. Winter smiled, and then to everyone’s surprise—most of all Weiss’—began to laugh. It was like the sound of a board being drawn across a picket fence, and abruptly it stopped. But she continued to smile. “I am glad, Weiss, because it means you’ve finally found friends.” She turned to the others of Ruby Flight. “I apologize for any insult, and for asking that question, Lieutenant Belladonna. You understand that the Schnee family and the White Fang do not, shall we say, get along? I am concerned about the safety of my little sister.”

Blake thought that was the understatement of the late 20th Century, but nodded. “Weiss told me. I’m no longer with the White Fang, nor are my parents.”

“After shooting down four of them last night, I’m not surprised.” Winter motioned them back to the chairs. She sat, marginally more relaxed; Weiss knew that for Winter, that was the equivalent of slumping backwards. “My sister,” she continued, “has always had trouble making friends, even in her old unit. The fact that you have bonded so quickly and easily tells me much about the people you are,” she told them. “Now then. Shall we talk about the engagement last night? I am quite interested.”

“Before we do, Winter, I have to ask a question.” Winter gave her a short nod, and Weiss continued. “ _Myrtenaster_ suffered a complete electrical failure last night. In theory, the odds of that happening are somewhere between astronomical and very unlikely. Did you ever have a problem with it?” To the others, Weiss said, “ _Myrtenaster_ was Winter’s before it was mine.”

“I helped test the Typhoon.” Winter did not meet Weiss’ eyes, and her thumbs began rubbing each other—which the younger Schnee recognized as the few overt signs of nervousness Winter ever showed. “Weiss…I would prefer to not say this in front of your friends…”

“We can leave, if you need us to.” Ruby made a move to get up, but Weiss stopped her. “You can say it in front of them, Winter.”

“Then I must ask that it not leave this room.” The glacier stare was back, and even Yang shrank before it. Once that was established, Winter continued with a deep breath. “Weiss… _Myrtenaster_ was sabotaged.”

“ _What?!”_ Weiss exclaimed.

“That’s nuts!” Yang added. Ruby had been about to say the same thing, so she just nodded vigorously.

Blake remained calm, but even her yellow eyes were wider than usual. “You know who it was, Colonel?”

“I do. Again, I must ask that you neither speak about this, nor intend to take revenge. Weiss and I will deal with the matter. It was _Hauptgefreiter_ Freud.”

“Jung?” Weiss’ mind whirled. About half her ground crew had flown in from Germany, as USAF technicians were unfamiliar with the Typhoon. _Hauptgefreiter—_ Sergeant—Jung Freud was the only female enlisted person in the crew, and responsible for maintaining the electronic systems, including DUST integration. While she and Weiss were not friends, they were on first-name basis. “Why? Jung is a good tech!”

“She is indeed. Which is why…” Winter paused, took a quick look around the table “…I’m sorry, Weiss, but…” Weiss was stunned. Her sister was actually at a loss for words. “Our father ordered her to sabotage the aircraft.”

Weiss put a hand over her mouth. “My God!” Yang half-yelled. “Your _dad_ is trying to kill you?”

“No!” Winter’s shout reverberated around the room. “Just the opposite, in fact. My guess is that Sergeant Freud timed the sabotage to take place when Weiss went to full power. It was to keep her on the ground.”

“And block the damn runways?” Yang was not mollified.

“That was almost certainly an accident, Captain Long.” 

“Father…” Weiss was on the verge of tears. “Why, Winter? Why?”

“He wants to protect you, Weiss,” Winter said. “He’s afraid you’re going to get killed over here.”

“Like I would be any safer back in Germany!”

“I did not say it made any sense. You are the heiress.”

Ruby raised a hand. “Win—er Oberst Schnee, you’re the oldest—wouldn’t you be the heiress?”

Winter was clearly uncomfortable discussing Schnee family business, but she answered Ruby nonetheless. “I abdicated the position when I joined the Luftwaffe. The title fell to Weiss.” She spread her hands modestly. “You must understand, the three of you. Our father, Jacques Schnee, did not want either Weiss or myself to join the military. We, along with our brother Whitley, are the future of the Schnee Corporation. He would sooner see us go into politics. The only way I was able to convince him to allow me to join the Luftwaffe was that I would serve as a symbol of the Schnee family’s willing to sacrifice for the Fatherland.” Winter chuckled ruefully. “Of course, he did not think I intended to lead from the front, nor that Weiss idolized her sister so much that she would follow me. Of course, the two of us have always liked to fly—“

Weiss suddenly shot to her feet and brought both fists down on the table. All of them jumped, and Ruby actually fell out of her seat. “Symbol!” she shouted. “Symbol! You mean he wants me to be his little snow angel, kept in her little globe!” Weiss grabbed the chair, and for a moment, they all thought she was going to throw it. She restrained herself just in time. “Or worse, he wants me to be a brood mare, and get married to some high-ranking politician to have lots of babies, just to continue the family line!” 

Winter reached out to restrain her. “Weiss, that is enough!”

“No, Winter! _I’ve_ had enough!” Unwilling to throw the chair or attack her sister, Weiss, dashing tears from her eyes, slammed the door open and ran from the room. In the hallway, they could hear an angry yell in German, followed by apologies in French as Weiss almost ran over Jaune Arc.

Winter blew out a breath and stood. “My apologies.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Blake said. “She has a right to be angry. If my parents ever tried that…” Her voice trailed off, making them wonder if the Belladonnas _had_ tried that.

Ruby rolled to her feet. “I’ll go after her.”

“No, Lieutenant Rose. I will. This is…family business. Do you understand?”

Ruby sighed. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I thought you might.” Winter walked towards the door and paused on the threshold. “Lieutenant Rose, I met your father Taiyang and your mother Summer once. She was…an exceptional woman.” Then Winter was gone. 

There was silence in the room. Then Ruby clapped her hands. “Well…since we have the day off, anyone up for a game of Risk?”

Blake shook her head. “No, thanks. I don’t mean to be a party pooper, but Sun Wukong called while you two were commiserating in the bathroom. He wanted to meet for lunch.”

“Oh _ho,”_ Yang grinned, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. “Meet you _for_ lunch, or _as_ lunch?” She put a hand on her heart. “I’m crushed, Blake! I thought we had something after last night.”

“We do. We passed out at the same time.” Blake waved at them and headed out. 

“Shit,” Yang grumbled. “Risk is no fun with two people.”

“Mind if we cut in?” They turned to see Jaune, Nora and Pyrrha at the door. He waved at them with one hand while rubbing the back of his head with the other; he had tripped getting out of Weiss’ way. 

Ruby waved them over. “Hell yeah. C’mon in.”

“This sounds lovely,” Pyrrha answered.

Winter did not have far to go to find Weiss. It was in the middle of the day, and even upset, Weiss was not going to cry in public. She had been instructed by the best not to show her emotions. 

Weiss was in the dorm’s public bathroom. 

Winter walked in to find a rabbit Faunus standing at the sinks, looking shocked at the sobbing coming from one of the stalls. One glance from the elder Schnee and Velvet fled. Winter checked under the stalls; they were now alone. “Weiss?”

“Go away!” Weiss shouted as Winter opened the stall. “Just leave, Winter! Go back and tell Father that I’m never coming back to Germany!”

“You have a duty to the Luftwaffe.”

“To _hell_ with my duty!”

“Weiss,” Winter said gently, “please look at me.” Weiss did so. Tears had ruined her makeup, making her face a harlequin’s mask. When Weiss had faced the other woman, Winter slapped her. Weiss nearly fell, but grabbed the toilet and the stall wall. She stared at Winter, in shock and betrayal.

“Stop it. Now.” Winter’s voice was the temperature of a cold wind. “Emotions can grant you strength, little sister, but you must never let them overpower you.” Winter waited until her sister composed herself, then stepped backward out of the stall. “You have a duty to your nation. The Luftwaffe is not a country club. If you are ordered to return to Germany, you _will_ obey. Without question.”

“That sort of mindless obedience is our biggest weakness, Winter,” Weiss snarled back. “It caused us to follow a man like Adolf Hitler into a mass grave.”

“It is also our greatest strength, Weiss,” Winter answered, without malice. “It allowed us to pull off an economic miracle, and kept us from falling to the GRIMM.”

“At what cost!” Weiss shouted. “Blake told me what our grandfather did! How the Schnees made the Faunus and then killed them or used them as slaves!” She advanced on Winter, and to both sisters’ surprise, Winter fell back. “Two generations of Germans have tried to atone for what the Nazis did, Winter, and now I’m told that my own family was no better than the SS.”

“Is this what you’re on about?” Winter asked.

Weiss almost slapped her back for that. “Among other things.” She brushed past Winter to stare into the mirror. “Was Blake lying, Winter?”

Winter let out a long breath. She did not face Weiss’ reflection in the mirror. “No.”

“God in heaven.” Weiss thought she was going to throw up into the sink. Seeing her sister about to say something, Weiss cut her off. “Don’t tell me that Nicholas Schnee was doing what he thought was right.”

“I was not going to say that.” Winter turned and put a hand on Weiss’ shoulder. “Yes, what Nicholas did was wrong—even if it did, in a way, save Europe, it was still wrong. And Father was wrong to order _Myrtenaster_ to be sabotaged. But Weiss…we must be above that. There is a higher calling, and we must obey that calling. Let us be _better_ than our fathers.”

“And Mother? I suppose she hasn’t gotten any better.”

Winter winced. Their mother was always a sore spot. “Unfortunately not.”

Weiss pulled herself on top of the sink counter and sat down. “When I came here, Winter, I acted like the heiress. I insulted Ruby, I demanded flight command, and when I didn’t get what I wanted, I pitched a fit and tried to get a transfer. And then I dug up Blake’s background and thought I’d won a victory by proving she was a Faunus. Instead I ended up learning I come from a family of murderers. I’ve done nothing but fuck up since I got here.” Winter blinked at the profanity, but Weiss cut her off again before a rebuke could get past her lips. “And you know something? Those girls in there? They’ve forgiven me. They still want to fly with me. They still want to be my friend. By all rights, Blake should hate me, and I should hate her…but I respect her, Winter. She’s overcome her prejudices, and I’ve tried to overcome mine. I’ve been able to act like myself for the first time! I don’t need to hide my emotions and be Father’s perfect little doll princess. Do you know what that’s like?”

“Yes.” A ghost of a smile flitted across Winter’s face. “Why do you think I got myself assigned to Ironwood’s staff? He might be something of a hardass, but he sees me for who I am, not what my last name is.” Winter hefted herself up next to her sister. “I am glad you’ve found friends, Weiss, but you must remember that duty often must take precedence over desire.” Hesitantly, and to Weiss’ surprise, Winter put an arm around her. We, the two of us, will talk with Sergeant Freud. There will be no more sabotage. You cannot serve Germany if your aircraft is on the ground.”

“I’m glad you understand.” Weiss leaned into her sister. It reminded her of her childhood. So often, Winter was her only comfort. Her father would be away on business, or leading the company, or hobnobbing with the EU elite. Her mother alternated between drinking her life away or drying out in a hospital somewhere. But Winter would always be there, always be the rock that Weiss could rely on for gingerbread when they weren’t supposed to have it, the one who got up early to make sure Weiss was prepared for school, the one that gave the love that their parents seemed to be incapable of giving. Despite her name and demeanor, Winter could be quite warm. “What if I’m ordered back to Germany early, before Vytal Flag is over?”

“I doubt that. The Luftwaffe is keenly interested in what is going on here, and how well DUST is working. As for Father, he cannot order you home. Only the service can do that.” Once more, there was the faint smile. “And I have General Ironwood’s ear as his EU liasion. He can countermand orders if he considers it a wartime necessity.”

“But we’re not at war,” Weiss said.

Winter stared at the ceiling. “Yes, we are.”


	25. Risk Theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Winter and Weiss patch things up, Yang, Ruby, Pyrrha, Jaune and Nora play Risk. 
> 
> And Yang plays for keeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you just have to have a little fun, and take a break from all the angst and shoot 'em up with a "friendly" game. A special thanks goes out to Knights of the Dinner Table-I got the idea (and some of the dialogue) for this scene from one of the early KODT issues. It fits the RWBY cast pretty well! And I'm not going to apologize for the shout-out to Firefly or Degeneration-X, either.
> 
> "Legio Patria Nostra" is the motto of the French Foreign Legion, which is where Jaune's gonna end up if he's not careful.
> 
> And if you're not in the mood for humor, stick around to the end for a slight surprise.

_Building 91213 (Female Officers’ Quarters)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_21 April 2001_

“So the name of the game is Risk,” Ruby said, setting up the map. It showed the Earth, circa 1900. “Now Dad sent us this from home, and it’s the Apocalypse edition! You get to draw a card at the beginning of the game, and they have stuff like nukes, GRIMM, plagues, famine, etcetera.”

“That seems in rather bad taste,” Pyrrha said. “Besides, nuclear weapons are banned—“

“Nukes?” Nora’s eyes widened. “That’s awesome!” She reached out to grab the baggie full of black pieces. “Black armies! I called it!”

“Aw, man,” Jaune sighed. “I wanted black.” 

“Tough kitty toenails!” Nora dumped out her pieces. “Ren’s missing out!” 

“Where is Ren, anyway?” Yang asked.

“Oh, he’s out grocery shopping. He lost the toss.” Nora licked her lips. In reality, Ren always did the grocery shopping. The other members of Juniper Flight had quickly learned that Lie Ren was something of a gourmet, and had turned their kitchen into a culinary delight. They kept it secret; from looking around Ruby Flight’s room, none of the girls knew how to cook without involving either cookie dough or the microwave, and they might start drifting over to Juniper’s room. For Nora, Ren shopping meant pancakes in the morning, and she was not about to share. 

Yang chose yellow, of course, and Ruby red. That left Pyrrha with blue and Jaune with green. Yang pored over her pieces, separating them. “I wonder if I should handicap myself.”

“What’s that?” Pyrrha asked.

“I’ve never been beaten at this game.” She stuck her tongue out at Ruby, whose face had darkened with rage. “I’ve beaten Rubes over there since she was five. Mom and Dad too, and Uncle Qrow.” Yang grinned. “Yep, undefeated champion since 1988.”

Pyrrha also carefully separated her armies. “I think, perhaps, I’ve played this once?”

“Don’t sweat it, Pyr. We’ll teach you.” Ruby emptied out her bag of armies. “By the way, why weren’t you at the party last night? Or did you come back after I, uh, passed out?”

Pyrrha gave a small start at that. Though she had drank far more than she ever had, she had not been blackout drunk, and remembered everything Jaune had done. She could not look at him, which left her staring at Yang, who was leering at the blush on her face. “I was really tired,” she said. “Just went to bed!” She added a nervous little laugh at the end, which did nothing to dissuade Yang.

“And where were you, Jaune?” Yang asked.

“Oh, me? Yeah, I went to bed too.”

“Alone?”

Jaune laughed. “Unfortunately.” He instantly regretted saying it. It sounded like he had only been helping Pyrrha to get into her pants. 

“Well, all _I_ know was that I woke up naked facedown on the bar.” Nora loudly folded the cards together like a Vegas poker dealer. “Good thing Jaune went to bed early, otherwise he couldn’t have helped Ren get me dressed and back to the dorm. Pyrrha here sleeps like the dead, so she was too busy snoring away to help.” She told the lie smoothly.

“I don’t remember that,” Yang said. “Then again, Blake did say I was singing Backstreet Boys songs at 3 AM, so I apparently don’t remember much.” She beetled her eyebrows in confusion. “I don’t even like the Backstreet Boys…”

“Hey!” Ruby yelled. “We going to game or not?” The last thing she wanted was the conversation to turn to what _she_ had been doing last night. Or this morning.

“Yeah, yeah.” Yang set up her armies. “By the way, Rubes, you want to help me, er, check and make sure Winter found Weiss okay?” She winked at her sister.

“Huh? Oh! Oh yeah. Let’s go do that.” Ruby finished her setup, then followed her sister out the door.

Nora narrowed her eyes after the sisters had left. “How dumb do they think we are?”

Jaune nodded. “They’re up to something. Look how they set up their armies. They’re going to catch us in a pincer.” He looked to the other members of his flight. “Nora, Pyrrha, we’ve got to form a nonaggression pact. The three of us won’t attack each other until either Ruby or Yang are eliminated. At that point, the pact is null and void. Agreed?” He put his right hand out. 

“Done,” Pyrrha said, and put her hand on top of his.

“ _Jawohl,_ Comrade _Il Duce!”_ Nora exclaimed, mixing three languages. She slapped her hand on top of theirs.

They quickly went back to setting up as Ruby and Yang came back in.

Eight turns into the game, Juniper Flight was learning that Yang’s boasts were not idle. Her yellow armies had swept through Europe like a tidal wave, and now she was headed east into Ukraine. Jaune had been swept from southern Europe and was desperately trying to reinforce in Africa. Ruby had kicked Nora out of North America and driven her south. Pyrrha, who spent all eight turns looking very confused, was sitting in Australia. 

“Okay,” Ruby said, “I’ll build up in Alaska and reinforce in Mexico.”

“That’s five turns you’ve done nothing but build up defenses!” Nora snapped. “The name of the game is Risk, not Caution!” She whirled on Jaune. “You’ve got to help me, Jaune! Take some territory from Yang before she’s unstoppable!”

“Yeah, right!” Jaune answered. “Look what happened in Europe, Nora! She beat me like my sisters! I lost half my armies just trying to hold France!”

“Well, I can’t help you. I’m trapped in South America!” Nora looked at her cards and slapped them down. “All right! I didn’t want to do this, but I’m cashing in my cards for fifty armies. Jaune, withdraw your troops from West Africa. I can punch through there and hit Yang.”

“You can do that?” Pyrrha asked. “I didn’t know you can cash in your cards for armies.”

“Sure can,” Yang affirmed.

“Allow foreign troops on my soil?” Jaune looked shocked. “I don’t think so, Nora. What’s to keep you from sweeping Africa if I did that?”

“Jaune, duh! We have a pact! I’d never break a pact with my ally.”

“Ah _ha!”_ Ruby yelled. “I knew it!”

“Oh, like you and Yang were really ‘checking on Weiss’!” Nora grabbed her armies and deployed them in West Africa, as Jaune dutifully moved his out of the way. “Okay,” she said, “I have 75 armies in West Africa. A hush falls over the globe as it waits for the Valkyrian Black Death to attack the Evil Yellow Empire of Yang Xiao Long!” Nora spread her hands over the map with a sinister grin on her face.

Yang raised an eyebrow. “That sounded vaguely racist.”

“But wait!” Nora stood and scooped up the dice. “What’s this? The Black Death turns south—into the soft underbelly of East Africa!” She gave Jaune a grin of unholy joy. “Throw down some dice, Jaune! You’re being invaded!”

“ _What?”_ Jaune grabbed his dice. “You dirty rotten traitor, Nora! Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal! You’ll never leave Africa alive!”

They threw their dice. Jaune groaned, and they rolled again. Once more, Nora obliterated him. Jaune’s armies were crushed in a turn. Nora stood on her chair and shook her rear from side to side, swishing her dress, then chopping her hands downwards over her crotch. “Yeah, suck it!”

“What the hell are you doing?” Ruby asked.

“That’s the Valkyrie Victory Dance!” Nora said, getting back down. “Get used to it, Ruby, because I’m gonna break out of South America and sing it over your _grave!”_

One bloody turn later, Jaune tossed his cards into the box. “That does it! I’m cashing in my cards for 125 armies, and then my Gang Green is launching their blitzkrieg against Nora!” 

Another clatter of dice. “Ha ha!” Nora crowed. “Take off six armies, Jaune! Your blitzkrieg is shit! Mine is an evil laugh!”

“Language,” Pyrrha warned. She had remained silent after asking Yang about the cards. 

“My Foreign Legion attacks!” Jaune was not going to go down without a fight. “ _Legio Patria Nostra!_ ” He rattled his dice again.

Yang leaned her head on her hand. “You idiots are fighting in vain. The Yellow Peril is going to turn on Africa next.”

Jaune’s offensive stalled and then broke in the face of Nora’s crack troops. Nora’s smile had widened to creepy proportions. “Fine,” Jaune growled. “Payback time.” He slapped down one of the Apocalypse cards. “Dirty Nuke! Your forces take fifty percent casualties, Nora.”

“Whoa,” Ruby breathed. “So South Africa and each bordering territory is uninhabitable for the rest of the game.”

Nora regarded the map, and nodded. “Not bad, Jaune. Too bad I’ve got this!” She put down her own Apocalypse card. “NBC Gear. My armies are immune to radiation! Ha!”

Jaune mumbled a French curse word under his breath. “This isn’t over yet, Nora.”

After two more turns, Yang sat up straight and cracked her knuckles. “Well, Asia and Europe are secure, and Ruby’s got the Western Hemisphere all sewn up. Nora and Jaune are killing each other in Africa; I’d hate to disturb them. Pyrrha’s nice and snug in Australia—not much of a threat, really.” She picked up her dice. “Sorry, Rubes. The time has come for our partnership to end.”

Ruby smiled across the table at her sister and raised her hands in a come-hither gesture. “Bring it, sis.”

Two turns later, Ruby’s Americans were in full retreat as the yellow armies rolled over North America. Her forces in South America had ceased to exist when Yang played her GRIMM Offensive card. Ruby’s retaliation, Bubonic Plague, destroyed many of Yang’s armies, but did little to affect the overall balance; Yang simply reinforced from Europe. The dice were turning against the little sister, and Ruby was forced into a last-ditch defense of Mexico. 

Jaune, whose armies had been virtually wiped out, shook his head. “That was brutal.”

“No kidding,” Nora agreed. Her armies were not in much better shape. “Yang’s got this.”

“Oh yeah?” Ruby rolled the dice in her hands. “We will fight to the last man and die with honor!” Yang merely smiled.

“Well,” Pyrrha suddenly spoke up, “I guess it’s time to leave Australia.”

“Why?” Yang asked.

“As Sun Tzu teaches,” Pyrrha replied, “’When the strike of a hawk breaks the body of its prey, it is because of timing.’” She set down some of her cards. “This should give me 175 armies.” Then she placed her Apocalypse card. “Noble Cause. This doubles the values of my cards, yes? That’s 350 armies in all.” She picked up her dice. “No offense, Yang. It’s not personal.”

“Er…right,” Yang said, turning pale. “Nothing personal.” She had played Risk too many times not to see what was coming.

Pyrrha’s first blow landed hard on Southeast Asia. Yang was still strong there, but Pyrrha had both numbers and dice rolls on her side. Yang’s armies were shattered in a turn. Two turns later, she was sweeping into Europe like a blue horde; Yang had stripped Europe of forces to reinforce North America, and those few armies left died. Pyrrha ignored Africa, where Jaune and Nora had practiced mutually assured destruction, and Ruby, with an expression of utter glee on her face, launched an attack to pin Yang in place—more than happy to sacrifice her own armies to fatally weaken her sister’s.

Yang saw the inevitable. She gave Pyrrha a cold look, then quietly swept her armies off the board. “You win,” she sighed. 

“Sorry,” Pyrrha said.

For a moment, Yang looked like she was not going to take the loss well. Then her expression softened into a smile. “Ah, well. It was bound to happen. I guess you could say it was a… _Pyrrhic_ victory?”

Everyone groaned.

“Are you all right now?” Winter asked.

“I think so.” Weiss dried her eyes, took out a small kit, and fixed her makeup.

“I’m glad.” Winter got off the counter. “I should report back to General Ironwood.” She had told Weiss about the plan to move additional forces into Wisconsin. It was no great secret; the entire state would know in the next 24 hours. “Remember what we talked about, Weiss.”

“I will.” 

Winter turned to leave, but was given a quick hug by her sister. The elder Schnee smiled, then left. Weiss followed moments later. As she turned into the hall, she nearly collided with someone. “Pardon me.”

“Oh! Excuse me,” the other person said. Winter noticed she was tall, a brunette whose hair was combed down to partially hide one eye. She wore the dress blues of the USAF and the rank of a major; her nametag read FALL. “I’m sorry,” the major asked as Weiss moved past, “can you tell me where the TLQ is?”

It took a moment for Weiss to remember that TLQ stood for Temporary Lodging Quarters. “Ah. You must be one of the flights in for Vytal Flag.”

“I am.” A slender hand was extended. “I’m an Eagle driver out of Lakenheath. Cinder Fall.” 

Weiss shook the hand; a warm, strong clasp. “Weiss Schnee. Luftwaffe.” She pointed in the general direction of the TLQ. “It’s Building 73114, I think.”

“ _Danke schon._ ” Cinder smiled. “Good to meet you.”


	26. Secret Agent Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Creamer Flight makes its arrival at Beacon, consisting of Cinder Fall, Mercury Black, Emerald Sustrai, and Ruth Lionheart. Ozpin is less concerned about that as he is that Blake might try to take on the White Fang by herself, and drag Ruby Flight along. 
> 
> Luckily, Ozpin has ways around that sort of thing.

_Building 11318 (Headquarters Vale Air Defense Sector)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_21 April 2001_

Ozpin was lost in thought, staring over the flightline, when he heard his office door open. He turned in the swievel chair. “Hello, Glynda.”

“Good afternoon, sir.” She dropped a folder on his desk. “Did I miss anything with Ironass?”

Despite himself, Ozpin smiled. Glynda Goodwitch and James Ironwood did not like each other, and even Ozpin wasn’t sure why. It went beyond the fighter pilot/bomber pilot rivalry. Idly, he wondered if there was an unspoken attraction between the two. _Such a narrow line between love and hate,_ he thought, _as I know only too well._

“Captain Ozpin?”

He shook himself. “Sorry, Glynda. Lost in thought. You’re not going to like what he had to say.” Ozpin explained what Ironwood had told him, and sure enough, the fury was plain on her face. 

“That’s ridiculous. The barrier is intact. GRIMM have barely been seen in the Minnesota Dead Zone since the 12th. We need those Army pukes the same way we need a hole in the damn head.”

Ozpin rubbed his temples. “I agree, for what it’s worth, but this comes from the President.”

“And who talked him into it? Ironwood, I bet.”

“I don’t think so.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. It’s going to happen. The 1st Armored will run around aimlessly for a few weeks, probably drive the locals crazy, and leave. The best thing we can do is just concentrate on the matter at hand.”

“Vytal Flag?” Glynda tapped the folder. “Latest team to arrive.”

Ozpin opened the folder. There were four files, but the summary was on a single sheet of paper:

_Fall, Cinder (Major, USAF; 49 th Fighter Wing, RAF Lakenheath, United Kingdom) F-15C Eagle_

_Lionheart, Ruth (Flight Officer, RAF; 6 Squadron, RAF Coltishall, United Kingdom) Jaguar GR.1A_

_Black, Mercury (1 st Lieutenant, USAF; 31st Fighter Wing, Aviano, Italy) F-16C Fighting Falcon_

_Sustrai, Emerald (Teniente, EDA; 14 Wing, Los Llanos, Spain) Mirage F.1CE_

Beneath the summary sheet was, to Ozpin’s surprise, a letter addressed to him from Air Commodore Leonardo Lionheart. 

_Dear Ozpin—_

_You asked me to select a flight to compete in the upcoming Vytal Flag joint exercise session. Well, old friend, I think these four will make a great team. Major Fall is a natural leader, though she can be a little ruthless at times—too prolifigate with others’ lives. I hope you can teach her the true meaning of leadership. Mercury Black tends to crowd his opponents too much, while Emerald Sustrai does just the opposite. Sustrai, by the way, comes at the recommendation of General Camacho—remember him?_

_Ruth Lionheart is, of course, my daughter. Hard to believe, eh? They grow up so fast. Though the Jaguar is not exactly a fighter on par with the F-15 or F-16, Ruth has shown some prowess with it, and she’s quite enthusiastic, if young. I think she represents a wild card, and you, Port, Barty and Glynda can teach her how to use the Jaguar more effectively. Just don’t let her get killed—she came back with telephone wires over one of her wings the other week, which she apparently hit while climbing. _

_I wish I could attend the exercise this year, but unfortunately the MoD is on my back about budget cuts and if the Harrier force should be retired early. They think that just because GRIMM attacks are down that we can cut the budget! What a crock. Not like the old days, eh? I won’t say I miss them—not when my knee hurts every time it rains, and you know that rain is all it does in jolly olde England—but at least that was when we were heroes and appreciated as such. Ah well._

_Give my affection to Glynda and the others, and tell them to visit every now and then. This old lion gets a mite lonely sometimes, with an empty house to come home to._

_I remain,_

_Leonardo Lionheart_

_Air Commodore, Royal Air Force_

Ozpin flipped the file pages. Cinder Fall stared back at him in a glossy picture: black hair in a fall down one side of her face, slightly out of regulation, amber eyes and full lips that showed more than a little arrogance. Ozpin had met many pilots with that look; they either ended up winning medals or an early grave. 

Mercury Black was a dark-eyed raven-haired, handsome young man, going prematurely gray, with an easy smile on his face. Ozpin was sure that he was a heartbreaker, and would probably cut a swath through the ladies of Beacon.

Emerald Sustrai was a dark-skinned brunette who highlighted her bowl-cut hair in green. Her expression was entirely neutral. 

Ruth Lionheart Ozpin came to last, and his eyes misted a little at her appearance. She wore a big smile, with a thick mane of brown hair that tiny ears poked out of, showing her lion Faunus heritage. Glynda regarded the picture. “God, she looks like her mother. How long as it been?”

“Since Dorothy died? Three years, perhaps?” Ozpin shook his head, remembering Dorothy Lionheart—a vivacious Faunus who kept the much older Leonardo tied around her finger. Dorothy did not shy away from a challenge, and died for it: she had been killed leading the Red Arrows demonstration team. 

“That must’ve almost destroyed Leonardo. To watch his wife crash right in front of him. I’m surprised he let Ruth go into the RAF.”

“Do you think he could have stopped her?” Ozpin smiled. He shut the folder and pulled out a marker. On the folder he wrote CMER.

“Cemer?” Glynda asked.

“I don’t even want to think what the pilots would do with that. Creamer is bad enough, but it’s the best I can come up with.”

Glynda shrugged. “I suppose it could be worse. You could’ve called them Crime Flight.”

“I was tempted.” 

Glynda paused. “There’s something I wanted to bring to your attention.” At Ozpin’s nod, Glynda continued, “I overheard Lieutenant Belladonna and Captain Wukong at the base cafeteria. They were discussing the White Fang. I think they thought the cafeteria was empty; I was in one of the back booths.”

“And?”

“Wukong tried to talk her out of it, but I think Belladonna’s going to go after the White Fang somehow. She’s very upset.”

“Not surprising,” Ozpin said, “given that they tried very hard to kill her last night.”

“It’s more than that,” Glynda countered. “I think she’s less upset that they tried to kill her than the fact that she had to kill them. I don’t think she’s got any loyalty to the Fang—just the opposite. I’m worried she might try to go after them herself—alone. Or worse, drag Ruby Flight into it.”

“That would be problematic. We know where the Torchwick Gang is—where they may be—but the CIA has forbidden us to do anything about it. They have a source there. James told me.”

“Wonderful,” Glynda soured. Like many military people, she had little time for the Central Intelligence Agency. 

Ozpin leaned back, and winced when his back popped. “Of course, there are ways around that. What do you think, Glynda?”

“I suspect that they’re going to do it anyway. Ruby Flight has a discipline issue—but you knew that when you put a child in charge of them. And even if I did object, you’d do it anyway.” Then she smiled. “But I don’t object. I might even help. Especially if it pisses off Ironwood.”

Ozpin nodded, and picked up his phone. 

_Central Intelligence Agency Headquarters (The Greenbrier)_

_White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia, United States of Canada_

_21 April 2001_

Deputy Director of Intelligence Rissa Arashikaze was poring over the latest reports from Japan when the phone rang. She punched a button and then speaker. “Arashikaze.”

“Rissa, this is Ozpin.”

Rissa’s lips, which had been pursed into a pensive expression, widened into a smile. “Ozpin! How the hell are you, you old bastard? I’d think they would’ve made you an admiral by now and made you retire.”

“After what I’ve done? I’m lucky to be in the service at all.”

Rissa tossed down her pencil. “Ancient history, Oz. I’ve done worse. What can I do for you?”

“Some of my pilots would be keenly interested in doing something about our White Fang problem.”

“Aren’t they busy training?”

“Let’s call it extra credit.”

Rissa grinned. “Ah. And would the person who is ‘keenly interested’ have black hair, likes bows in her hair, and is about 5’6” with yellow eyes?”

“She is,” Ozpin confirmed. “I’m mildly surprised you know her.”

“The CIA knows all.” She laughed. “And if you believe that, I’ll tell you another one.” She reached over to the phone and punched another button. The call was now scrambled, in the unlikely event someone was listening in. “What did they have in mind?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Well, here’s my problem,” Rissa said. “As I told you in my e-mail, we have an asset inside the White Fang.”

“Source Camo?”

“The same. I can’t afford to blow their cover, and I would rather not get them killed.”

Ozpin noticed that Rissa did not mention the source’s gender, or even how many there were. “What would we be allowed to do?”

“An airstrike would be out of the question. We’re not sure where the White Fang or the Torchwick Gang even are.”

It was Ozpin’s turn to smile. “I have good intelligence on that, but I’d need to move fast to confirm.”

Rissa twisted the telephone cord around her fingers as she leaned back in her chair. “The CIA would not be adverse to an armed reconnaissance over the area…so long as we get access to the pictures.” 

Ozpin’s smile widened. _Armed reconnaissance_ was doublespeak for sending a reconnaissance mission to a certain area, with armed escorts. Should the reconnaissance mission be attacked, the mission force could retaliate. It was a clever dodge around attacking the White Fang and/or the Torchwick Gang without actually ordering such a strike, and provided Rissa an out with her own superiors. “I could have them faxed the moment the pictures are dry.” 

“And it just so happens that the person in question flies an aircraft capable of carrying a camera pod.”

Ozpin could hear the laughter in her voice. “Indeed so. What a coincidence.”

“Missed you, old man.”

He had the speaker on his own phone, and Glynda’s eyebrow went up at that. “Let’s hope this goes better than some of our capers,” Ozpin told her.

Rissa cleared her throat. “I am officially informing you, Captain Ozpin, that the CIA will disavow any knowledge of your operation should it fail…or succeed. I am unofficially wishing you good luck. I will try and notify Camo to stay out of your way.” She paused. “Don’t fuck it up, Oz.”

“ _We_ won’t,” Glynda said clearly.

“Oh, is Glynda the Good Witch there too? It’s old home week. Still kicking ass, Glynda?” Rissa asked.

“I try, Rissa.”

“You try pretty well. Best of luck, all of you.” Rissa hung up, stared at the phone for a moment, shrugged, and went back to her reports. 

Ozpin hung up his own phone and stood up. “Colonel Goodwitch, I feel the need for a walk.”

“Of course, sir,” she nodded. “Would the Captain require an escort to the Female Officers’ Quarters?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ruth Lionheart started off as something as a throwaway NPC to fill out CRME, since Neo is busy with Torchwick in this AU. She's ended up becoming very much her own character, as you'll see in future chapters--part of Cinder's flight, but with no idea who her teammates really are or what they're up to. It was also an interesting way to put Leonardo Lionheart in the story much, much earlier than his appearance in canon RWBY.
> 
> Rissa Arashikaze shows up in a few of my other stories (namely as the grandmother of the main character of my Evangelion AU), so I threw her in here as Ozpin's friend in the CIA. She shows up very sparingly in "On RWBY Wings," because I don't want any OCs to overshadow the main characters.


	27. Breaking the Habit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blake is upset: no one seems to care that the White Fang is working with humans, or suddenly fielding an air force. Luckily for her, Ruby Flight has got her back.
> 
> And to her surprise, so do others.

_Building 91213 (Female Officers’ Quarters)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_21 April 2001_

Yang was three chapters into _Ninjas of Love_ when Blake walked in. Juniper Flight had returned to their rooms, Ruby was reading a comic book, and Weiss was staring at the underside of Ruby’s bed. She had said nothing since returning from her meeting with Winter. “Hey, Blake,” Yang greeted. She held up the book. “You know, this is pretty much just—“

“—filth. Yes, I know. Your sister told me.” Blake tossed her purse onto the dresser, then collapsed onto her bed. 

“I was going to say smut, but filth works too.” Yang turned the page and her eyes widened. “Whoa. Now _that’s_ a—“

“Don’t say it,” Blake remarked tiredly. 

Yang shut the book and leaned over her bed. “Sun wear you out?”

Blake gave her a dirty look. “It’s been a long day, all right? No offense, Yang, but I’d appreciate it if you just left me alone for a bit.”

Before Yang could reply to that, Weiss turned over in her bed. “Blake, what is wrong? Ever since you woke up, you’ve been antisocial and moody.”

“Have you _met_ Blake?” Yang grinned.

“Fuck off!” Blake kicked the bottom of Yang’s bed, which tipped dangerously for a moment. 

Weiss sat up and folded her arms. “I rest my case. You seemed pretty happy last night at the club…unless that was forced.”

Blake flipped over onto her stomach and cradled her pillow. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s too bad,” Weiss said, getting to her feet and walking over to her. “Because you’re going to.”

Blake rolled out of bed and was face-to-face with Weiss. Ruby was out of her bed in a second to get between them. “ _I’ve_ been moody and antisocial? What about you, Weiss? You ran off after yelling at your sister! Don’t tell me you’re any better!”

Weiss’ hands clenched into fists, and for a moment, Ruby thought she might have to get between them. “Want to know what we talked about, Blake?” Weiss hissed. Before Blake could answer, she continued. “My father is a manipulative bastard who sees me as little more than a doll. My mother is a drunk. My sister is so devoted to her duty that she sometimes forgets to be human. My brother doesn’t care about anything except when the next _Tomb Raider_ comes out.” Weiss stepped back. “There. Done. No more secrets, Blake.” The confession took the wind out of Blake’s metaphorical sails, and she stood there with a stunned expression. “And take off your bow. When you’re with us, it’s not necessary.”

Yang blinked. “Holy shit, Weiss.” Ruby looked from one to the other, unsure of what to do.

Blake sighed. She reached up and took off the ribbon. Her ears, freed from their silk prison, twitched. “All right. You’re right, Weiss. No more secrets.” She sat on her bed. “I just don’t understand how everyone can be so calm. Last night, I got drunk because I didn’t want to think about it, but today…it’s _all_ I’ve been able to think about.”

“Is it about Torchwick?” Ruby asked. Involuntarily, in her mind’s eye, she saw Milwaukee hurtling up at her again. Blake hadn’t been the only one drinking to forget.

“Torchwick, the White Fang, the DUST attacks, everything.” Blake shook her head. “Something big is about to happen.”

“What does Sun think?” Yang asked.

“I don’t think Sun really cares, to be honest,” Blake replied. “He’s here for fun and Vytal Flag.”

“Well, he does have a point,” Yang said. “It’s not really our job unless they attack Beacon. I don’t think even the White Fang are that nuts.”

“Yang,” Blake protested, “the White Fang were working with Torchwick last night. They _never_ work with humans. That’s sort of the whole point. My father resigned from the White Fang because Sienna Khan kept demanding that we shouldn’t even associate with humans—that humans are the enemy. And last I heard, White Fang was lucky to have five or six aircraft at all, let alone anything that could fly. Last night, they hit Milwaukee with eighteen fighters. It wasn’t Torchwick’s gang, either—all the F-5s and MiGs I saw carried White Fang symbols. And they were all in good shape.” She looked to Ruby for confirmation.

Ruby spread her hands. “Don’t ask me! I was too busy trying not to buy the farm!”

“I know what I saw,” Blake finished.

“And I believe you,” Weiss said. “I don’t think my sister and General Ironwood showing up here is a coincidence.” She reached out and put a hand on Blake’s shoulder. “I’m with you, Blake—we all are. But we’re just fighter pilots. This isn’t our job.”

Blake put her hand on Weiss’. “I know. But I don’t think anyone else is going to do anything about it.” She pointed out the window. “They’re out there, ladies, somewhere, planning their next move. I don’t know what it is, but it’s coming. Our job or not, ready or not, it’s coming.”

Ruby stepped up. “Okay. Maybe it’s not our job, but I think we could at least look into it.” She put her hand out. “Who’s in? Say aye.”

Yang hopped off her bed and put her hand on top of Ruby’s. “I’m in.”

Weiss turned, smiled, and put her hand on top of Yang’s. “Why not?”

Blake stood, and after a pause, put her hand on top of Weiss’. “All right. We’re in this together.”

Ruby rolled her eyes. “None of you said aye.”

* * *

There was a knock on the door. The four girls pulled away from each other. “Probably Pyrrha or Nora,” Ruby said, then raised her voice. “Come in!”

“Thank you.” Ozpin opened the door, followed by Glynda.

“Attention on deck!” Blake shouted, and all four girls came to attention.

“At ease,” Ozpin told them, waving them down. Weiss and Blake went to parade rest—legs slightly spread, hands behind the small of their backs. Ruby leaned against the dresser. Yang hopped back into bed. Glynda frowned, but Ozpin only looked amused. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No, sir,” Ruby answered. “Just talking about…stuff.” Blake coughed politely; Ruby was a terrible liar.

“Would this ‘stuff’ include some sort of secret pact to do something about the White Fang?” At Ruby Flight’s surprised expressions, Ozpin smiled. “These walls are terribly thin, unfortunately. Colonel Goodwitch and I heard snippets of your conversation as we came down the hall.”

Ruby closed her eyes. They were in trouble. “We just want to look—“

Blake interrupted her. “Sir. It was my idea, sir.” She fell back into the way recruits addressed instructors in basic training.

Ozpin nodded. “Because you believe the authorities will do nothing about it?”

“Sir. Yes, sir.”

Their eyes met for a moment, then Ozpin glanced over to the side table. “You know, I could use a cup of coffee. Might I have some?” Yang jumped down and walked over to the coffee machine, and got something brewing. She then selected the least dirty mug, which had her old squadron patch on it and the words _Fighter Pilots Never Prematurely Eject._ Even Glynda had to suppress a smile at that one.

“Yes, it is a problem,” Ozpin continued, taking a seat at the table. “What is your plan?” Ruby looked at Blake. Blake looked at Weiss. Weiss looked at Yang, who was too busy staring at the coffee machine, as if by mental power she could make it brew faster. “I see. You don’t have one.”

“Well…” Ruby folded her hands in front of her, as if in prayer, “we sort of just decided to do this.”

“Then allow us to help,” Glynda told them. She dropped her voice. “We have permission to try an armed reconnaissance of where we think the Torchwick Gang might be. Would that sort of thing interest you, Lieutenant Belladonna? I believe you’re qualified for TARPS.”

“I am, ma’am,” Blake confirmed. TARPS—Tactical Airborne Reconnaissance Pod System—was a camera pod that could be carried beneath the F-14. “We did some work with it at Pax River.” At Glynda’s raised eyebrow, Blake gave her a nod. “I would be very interested, ma’am.”

“Then we shall start planning that immediately.” Ozpin took the cup from Yang. “Thank you, Captain.” Weiss held her breath as Ozpin took a sip, but he did not react to Yang’s coffee other than a slight widening of the eyes. “Mmm. This is quite good, Captain. Reminds me of the coffee we used to have at sea.” He pretended not to notice Yang’s triumphant fist pump.

“You will still be required to attend classes,” Glynda said. “This will be considered…extra credit. Ruby Flight will be, however, excused from standing combat air patrol duty. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” all four members of Ruby Flight replied.

Ozpin set the mug down. “Good.”

“Sir. There is still the question of how the White Fang were able to acquire so many aircraft,” Blake said.

“Yes, that is quite the change from our last intelligence reports about them.” Inwardly, Ozpin cursed. He had forgotten to ask Arashikaze about that. “I will begin some inquiries with my own sources.”

“Captain Ozpin?” Yang raised her hand. “Actually…I think I might know a guy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda short chapter this time, but setting up for another big fight scene next chapter.


	28. Riders On the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blake goes alone to recon Cleveland, thought to be the hideout of the Torchwick Gang. She's going to catch them by surprise, but Blake will get a surprise of her own.
> 
> Her boyfriend's back.

_Joint Base Beacon_

_Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_22 April 2001_

_Gambol Shroud_ leapt into the air. Blake cycled the landing gear up and turned south to make a circuit of the field. She waited until the rest of the flight took off, and smiled at the sight. Night takeoffs were always something to see: there were only the runway lights and the running lights of the aircraft, then the afterburners would be lit, leaving shock diamonds in their wake as they rose to speed, only to turn to purple fire as the brakes were let off and the aircraft climbed away from the base. Then they would disappear as throttles were brought back to normal cruising speed. 

“Yang to Bolo Flight, check in.” As Yang was the senior in rank, she commanded the flight. The normally boisterous blonde was strictly professional this night.

“Weiss.” The Typhoon was repaired, with Winter Schnee looking over the efforts with a cold eye. No one dared cross either Schnee now. Weiss tucked up _Myrtenaster_ on _Ember Celica’s_ right wing; the F-15’s gunship gray scheme made it nearly invisible against the Wisconsin forests below. 

“Sun.” Sun Wukong led the other section in his Ching Kuo.

“Neptune.” Neptune Vasilias’ F-18 joined up with Sun. 

“Blake.” Blake kept her F-14 away from the main flight. She spared a thought for Ruby, still on the ground at Beacon, no doubt morose. _Crescent Rose_ was still in the hangar, being repaired. 

“Roger that,” Yang acknowledged. “Squawk off, and follow me. You guys know the drill.”

Everyone in Bolo Flight switched off their IFF and flew due east—except Blake. She hung back, wings spread, and let the other four get out far ahead of her. _Gambol Shroud,_ with no electronics on, would be a black hole in the sky. No one knew if the Torchwick Gang had some sort of radar—no emissions were ever picked up from the Cleveland area, but they had to assume the Gang and/or the White Fang had some sort of early warning system. 

It was a simple plan. Inbound from Germany was Lufthansa Cargo Flight 1414, a 747 loaded with DUST modules, flying from Frankfurt to Chicago. The assumption was that an unescorted DUST flight would attract Torchwick’s attention, and he would try to hijack it. Bolo Flight would be actually north of the 747, which really was loaded with the modules—but was also acting as bait. With any luck, Torchwick would take the bait, and fly right into an ambush over western Ontario. It was a little bit of psychological guessing: though the White Fang had been decimated by what was already known as the Lake Michigan Massacre, the Torchwick Gang was intact and Torchwick would not be able to resist a quick score to recover his reputation. 

While Torchwick was out running into Bolo Flight’s ambush, the second part of the plan would swing into action: Blake would fly over Cleveland, making a low-level pass over the supposedly abandoned downtown airport. The TARPS pod, nestled between the Tomcat’s engines, would snap away with its two cameras and the infrared scanner. Attached beneath one of the wing stations was an electronics intelligence pod that would pick up any electronics emissions in the area—such as radar signals and patterns, both detection and tracking radars. Blake would make one or two passes, depending on the reaction, if any, of anything below, then return to Beacon. Besides the two pods, she carried two external drop tanks, three AMRAAMs, and a Sidewinder. The latter were for self-defense only; Blake had no intention of dogfighting tonight if she could avoid it. She had one mission: get the pictures and get out.

There was another wrinkle to the operation, that had just been revealed as they were finishing mission planning that afternoon: a major storm was sweeping in off the Atlantic. It would not have reached Cleveland by the time of the mission, and Flight 1414 would be ahead of it…but it would make perfect cover from an approach from the east. Blake intended to fly through the leading edge of the thunderstorm. When she had announced that, Yang’s eyebrows had risen into her hair, and Neptune had said simply, “YGBSM?” That was old fighter pilot shorthand for _You’ve Got to Be Shitting Me._ Blake shrugged. It was a risk, but life was a risk. 

Since Ruby couldn’t go along, she got the consolation prize of naming the operation. She named it Operation Starlight, which Blake didn’t think was terribly inventive.

Lake Michigan slipped beneath them, twenty thousand feet below. Blake spared the dark waters a glance, then looked down the coast at the amber glow of Milwaukee and Chicago on the horizon. Above her scudded some cirrus clouds. She wished she could do a sweep of her radar—cirrus clouds were great hiding places for enemy aircraft—but resisted the urge. Blake commanded herself to relax. 

Another half hour passed. Lake Michigan was now behind her, and Michigan’s Lower Peninsula appeared. A thin string of amber on the coast, scattered lights further inland, and then the lights disappeared. Suddenly all below was darkness. _The Michigan Dead Zone,_ Blake thought. The darkness seemed to close in; only a thin sliver of a crescent moon helped light the night. 

Suddenly, ominously, the ground glittered ahead, and slid under _Gambol Shroud’s_ nose. Through the TCS beneath the nose, Blake could see the ground, and knew where she was. The glittering was trinitite, where several nuclear devices had detonated at once, in close proximity, enough to fuse the ground into greenish glass—acres of it. Detroit had been a major target in the Third World War, as the center of the American auto industry. Had been. Around the trinitite were the twisted remains of the city, something Blake was glad she could not see. 

“Bolo, Cricket.” The voice, after an hour of silence, startled Blake. It was the voice of an E-3 AWACS orbiting on its usual track over central Indiana. “No threats to the force. Time is 2213 hours local.” Cricket went silent. The AWACS’ powerful radar undoubtedly could pick up Bolo Flight, and might even be able to pick out Blake, if the operator was good enough. Yang did not reply to Cricket, just in case Torchwick or someone else was listening to Cricket’s transmissions. 

“No threats,” Blake said aloud, mainly to hear something besides the faint roar of her engines and the breathing in her oxygen mask. Torchwick had not taken the bait, or was going to cut it awfully close. If the Lufthansa flight was on time, it would be just east of Toronto by now. _Well, that’s okay,_ she thought. _Torchwick can wait._

Blake looked up from a scan of her instrument panel, and noticed the moonlight fade and then disappear. Ahead was darkness, then a lightning bolt lit up the cloud. _The storm. Here we go._

Sure enough, Yang’s voice sounded in her ears. “Bolo, your signal is Glimmer. Repeat, Glimmer.” That meant that Operation Starlight was a go. A quick check of her navigation, and Blake dumped both external fuel tanks into Lake Erie; they were almost empty in any case. She pushed up the throttle slightly—enough that the Tomcat’s wings cycled backwards—and entered the storm. 

Instantly, the F-14 was bounced around as the winds at the leading edge of the thunderstorm hit it head on. The stick was nearly ripped out of Blake’s gloved hands and she fought the storm as if it was a living thing. The cockpit was suddenly lit as if it was noon by lightning, then plunged into darkness again; the visor on her helmet protected her from the worst of the flash effects. The altimeter rose up and down as turbulence battered _Gambol Shroud;_ the view ahead was turned into a prism as rain lashed the Tomcat’s windscreen. 

_Okay,_ Blake thought as another lightning bolt lit everything up, _here comes the tough part._ Now she had to trust her instruments. _Don’t look outside, there’s nothing there. Nothing there but clouds, rain, lightning and death. Watch your instruments, trust your instincts._ Slowly, she began a right turn and descent. Now the Tomcat was broadside to the wind, and the storm seemed to be angry at that fact: it lashed out and tried to push _Gambol Shroud_ into a flat spin. Blake held on, one hand on the stick, one on the throttle, both feet on the rudder pedals, all four limbs constantly moving. Her breathing and heart rate quickened, but only as much as it would be if she was jogging. Blake Belladonna was nothing if not a professional. _Besides,_ she thought with a grim smile as another gust of wind tried to push her higher into the storm, _this isn’t nearly as bad as landing on a carrier at night._ The buffeting slackened just a little as she completed her turn and reached eight thousand feet. Lightning spun a spiderweb of energy above the canopy.

Without warning, her airspeed dropped. The Tomcat heaved and seemed to hesitate. _Oh God,_ Blake thought, and now her heart did begin to hammer. _Wind shear!_ She slammed the throttle forward as a burst of wind punched _Gambol Shroud_ downwards like a fist. The nose rose towards the sky, and with a hissing growl, Blake pushed the throttle into afterburner. The altimeter spun crazily around as the Tomcat hovered on the edge of the stall, the engines howling audibly as Blake fought to get every pound of thrust out of them. She fought to get the nose down. 

For a few seconds that felt like hours, Blake fought the storm, pitting her reflexes against nature itself. Finally, the nose dropped, the airspeed rose, and the altimeter slowed, then stopped. As if someone drew back a curtain, the Tomcat flew out of the storm. Rain and wind still buffeted the aircraft, but she was out of the shear. She came out of afterburner, did a quick check ahead, and saw she was, amazingly, on course. The ruins of Cleveland were ahead, and the shoreline of Lake Erie pointed like an arrow to the Lakefront Airport. She reached out and touched a button. Beneath the F-14, the TARPS pod clicked on and began taking pictures. Blake dropped lower and began her run.

There was no ground fire, but Blake had not really expected any. Torchwick’s hideout depended on being hidden. She wondered if there was a radar anywhere—and then her radar warning receiver beeped for her attention.

There were two radars looking at her, from directly ahead. _Screw it, they know I’m here by now,_ Blake thought, and switched on her radar. One sweep showed two radar signatures, and locked onto both of them. Blake pulled the trigger twice. Two AMRAAMs dropped from the forward missile wells and shot forward like tiny comets. She looked away to keep from ruining her night vision, then the airport was beneath her. The runway looked clear enough, if dilapidated, and… “Holy shit!” Blake yelled.

Below her was a row of MiG-21s. There had to be a dozen of them, and each one was marked with the snarling wolf’s head of the White Fang. Then she was past, down the runway in a classic windows-rattling pass, wings raked back. There was the briefest glimpse of a Sea Harrier—on the ground, looking like it had seen better days—but it wasn’t Torchwick’s. This one was the same overall white color as his, but it looked to have stripes on the wings. Then it was past. 

Blake checked her radar, but there was nothing ahead. _That’s weird, where’s the other—_

Then her RWR went off.

Roman Torchwick was enraged, and damned Sienna Khan to every one of the nine thousand Chinese hells. 

He knew about the DUST shipment on Lufthansa Flight 1414, but had no intention of going after it; Torchwick knew that the USAF would be on high alert now. He was more than happy to take the night off, and use the opportunity of the storm front to assemble the replacement MiGs where neither USAF radar nor USC satellites could see them. There were only a dozen new MiG-21s, well short of what they needed to replace the losses of the night before last, but it was better than nothing, and he still had his own gang to draw on. 

He did not have radar, but what Torchwick did have was a very efficient ground-based early warning system, made up of people he paid regularly and well to report any strange aircraft in his area. It was rare, since most commercial flights were known, and military flights tended to avoid the Ohio Dead Zone—there was nothing there. Tonight, however, one of his people in a fishing trawler on Lake Erie reported seeing something delta shaped fly over. More out of boredom and a burning desire to get the hell away from Sienna Khan for awhile, Torchwick and Neo Politan had taken off in their Sea Harriers to investigate. 

That was when two AMRAAMs had flashed out of the storm front straight at them.

With a terrible oath, Torchwick had once more dived towards the surface of Lake Erie, using the crenellated surface of the wind-tossed lake to confuse the missile’s radar seeker. That AMRAAM had dived into the lake and exploded. Neo was lower and simply did not have the time or the altitude to evade, so she desperately pulled back on the throttle and let her Harrier drop like a rock. It saved her life, as the missile spun past her canopy, but now the Sea Harrier was crumpled on the runway.

Torchwick saw red. Luckily he had ordered his aircraft fully loaded with missiles; the Gang was still short of AMRAAMs, so he only had one. He fired it anyway at the speeding Tomcat.

Blake cursed and slammed the stick into her right knee, at the same time dropping chaff behind her. The tactic worked; the missile—which never had a solid lock on the _Gambol Shroud_ to begin with—enthusiastically chased the chaff cloud. But it forced her to slow down, and a quick glance to the four o’clock position saw a very angry looking Sea Harrier headed for her. Blake cheated the turn tighter, a near scream escaping her lips as the G-suit clamped down on her middle, forcing blood into her brain. Blackness appeared at the edge of her vision for a moment, but then faded as she met Torchwick head on. 

“Head to head, little cat?” Torchwick growled. Even in the dim light of the moon, there was no question in his mind who he was facing. He switched to guns, but the Tomcat was past in a second, so close that for a split second, his green eyes met her yellow ones. The Sea Harrier bounced around in the F-14’s jetwash, but Torchwick was already climbing, already straining his neck to keep the Tomcat in sight.

Blake gritted her teeth. Every instinct—fighter pilot and predator Faunus—screamed at her to stay and fight Torchwick, and blow the thief out of the sky. She fought them off: the mission was to get the pictures back to Beacon. With a few choice curses, she made the decision to break off the fight—if Torchwick would let her. She knew the enemy always got a vote, and the Harrier was rolling at the top of a climb, the nose pulling down as he tried to drop down behind her. Blake reversed her turn and headed back due west. 

_Position report,_ she told herself. “Cricket, Cricket! This is Ruby Three!” 

“Ruby Three, Cricket.” The voice of the AWACS controller was calm. The crew of Cricket had been warned that there might be radio calls from Bolo or Ruby flights this night.

“Cricket, I am engaged with a single pirate Sea Harrier just north of Cleveland!”

“Roger, Ruby Three. Set course one-seven-zero; help’s on the way.”

“Roger!”

Torchwick was not to be dissuaded that easily. He leveled out behind and to Blake’s right, and fired his cannon. Blake dodged right, once more slowing her down. Torchwick ended up on her left, reversed his turn as she reversed hers. The two aircraft missed each other by feet, and once more his firing solution was ruined.

The two ended up in a horizontal scissor, each turning into each other as each tried to force the other in front. Blake would edge ahead, gaining a mile of distance, then be forced to turn back as Torchwick tried to drop behind her. Each time, however, she lost more airspeed. The Tomcat’s wings cranked forward, and Blake knew it was only a matter of time before Torchwick had her. She chanced more airspeed—the Harrier would always win a low-speed knife fight. Torchwick ended up behind her, but now she had some separation. She kept jinking, rolling, occasionally dropping a flare. Torchwick could not lock on, but she could not break free of the fight.

“Goddammit,” Torchwick snarled. “This cat is good.”

“Shit,” Blake hissed. “This bastard is good.”

Torchwick closed the distance as Blake dropped low over the lake, using the thief’s tactic against him. His fingers switched to missiles, then switched back to guns, and he put the pipper of the gunsight over the broad spine of the Tomcat.

“Yang, Fox Two!”

Torchwick’s RWR screamed for his attention. He kicked the tail around—the Sea Harrier’s vision to the rear was not the greatest—and to his horror, he saw a yellow-nosed F-15 surge out of the darkness. That was marginally less of a problem than the two Sidewinders headed in his direction. 

The thief was good. Despite having only a split-second to react, he managed to evade the first Sidewinder with a hard right break, then the second in a hard climb. As the airspeed bled off, however, Torchwick rolled his eyes. He knew without looking that the Sea Harrier was a nice, spreadeagled target for the F-15.

He was right. With a laugh, Yang pulled the trigger. The M61 Vulcan marched twenty millimeter shells across the Harrier’s back and right wing. Flames erupted from ruptured fuel tanks and the engine died with a shudder. Torchwick gave Yang the finger as the F-15 flew past, and ejected. 

“Hey, hey! Yang, splash one!” Yang did a quick circle as Harrier slid backwards and disappeared into Lake Erie. She saw a parachute blossom, and a boat heading towards the drifting figure under the ‘chute. Yang briefly considered strafing the boat, but then decided that wasn’t really that sporting, even for an air pirate, and turned back to catch up with Blake. “You’re clear, Blake!”

“Thanks, Yang.” Blake throttled back and checked her fuel. It was low, but she should be able to make Beacon. Both the F-14 and F-15 climbed away from Cleveland and the approaching storm.

“Weiss, Fox Two.” Both Blake and Yang turned their heads to look north. There was the tiniest dot of flame, almost like a falling star, then it disappeared. “Weiss, splash one.”

“Weiss, Yang, what’s going on?”

“Air pirates, out of the storm—“ Her voice rose an octave. “Neptune, break right! You’ve got one behind you!”

A pause of a second. “Ah, shit!” Neptune’s voice was more angry than scared. “I’m hit.”

“Neptune, Neptune!” Sun shrilled. “Get out of it! Get out of it! You’re on fire! You’re on fire!”

“Negative.” Neptune sounded bored. “Let me just…”

Yang looked from Blake to the north. She had plenty of fuel. “Blake—“

“Go! I’m fine!” Blake watched the F-15 peel away and disappear into the darkness, then reappear when Yang lit her afterburners. 

Sun was screaming at Neptune to bail out. There was no answer for a few seconds, and Blake wondered if the Navy aviator with the handsome smile was dead. Then Neptune’s voice came on. “Okay,” he puffed out. “Okay. Fire’s out. Whew! Had to dive there. Okay, let’s see…one engine out, got some stab damage here. Where’s the bandits?”

“Gone,” Weiss reported. “Lufthansa’s okay. He’s diverting to Sawyer. Can you make it to Beacon, Neptune?”

“That’s a big negative, Weiss,” Neptune said. “I can make Fort Wayne.”

Blake stared to the north, but could not see anything; even Yang had disappeared again. It was like listening to a football game on the radio. 

Yang took command. “Okay, Neptune, divert to Fort Wayne. Sun, you stay with him. Weiss, you and me escort Lufthansa to Sawyer. Cricket, you listening?”

“Roger that, Yang.” The AWACS controller had remained silent. Once the dogfight started, there was little they could do. “Had your bandit on scope. He was heading southeast when I lost him. We’ve scrambled the alert five at Niagara Falls, but they’re not going to find him in the storm.”

“Roger. Could you scramble Beacon and make sure Blake RTBs okay?”

“Can do, Yang.” The controller dropped off the net.

Blake relaxed a fraction. She was now over the Michigan Dead Zone again, but this time, she kept looking around, head on a swivel, in case Torchwick’s gang managed to get something else in the air. Every second made that less likely, and once the Beacon alert five reached her—it was Scarlet, Velvet and Coco tonight, Blake remembered—she would be safe as she was ever going to be. _Oh, Coffee Flight’s going to be pissed again,_ she giggled to herself. _Always a day late and a dollar short._

_Squadron Dispersal Area A_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_23 April 2001_

Blake landed without further incident, escorted in by a fuming Coffee Flight. She taxied _Gambol Shroud_ into its hardstand, shut down the engines, and raised the canopy. Cool, crisp night air rolled over her, drying the sweat underneath her flight suit. “That feels good,” she remarked to no one in particular. 

“Need some help, ma’am?” her plane captain called from below.

“No, I’m good.” Blake did a quick gut check, as her father called it. She raised both hands to eye level. Both were steady. _Not bad,_ she thought, _considering I was about two seconds away from my parents getting that phone call from the chaplain._ She chuckled as she unstrapped and pinned the ejection seat, so it would not accidentally fire on the ground. _Still not as scary as night carrier landings. That time on the_ Sara… _damn. I’d face a thousand Torchwicks before I’d do that again._

Blake climbed down and took off her helmet; her bow sprang into place like a jack-in-the-box. Beneath it, her ears hurt from being crammed under a helmet, but it was a price she was willing to pay. Already, other enlisted men were beneath the Tomcat, even as the engines ticked as they cooled, unloading the film packs from the TARPS pod. She heard footsteps, and turned. Only Faunus reflexes saved her from being tackled to the ground by the red storm better known as Ruby Rose.

“Hi there,” Blake said.

“Hey yourself!” Ruby stood on tiptoe to ruffle Blake’s hair, coming dangerously close to dislodging the bow. “You okay?”

“Yep.” She looked to the plane captain for confirmation; the chief threw her a thumbs’ up. “Not even a scratch this time. Thanks to your sister—she shot Roman Torchwick off my butt.”

“I heard Yang got a kill, but she got _Torchwick?”_ Ruby literally jumped for joy. “Hot damn! This calls for a celebration when she gets back!” Ruby calmed herself. “A nice, subdued celebration. No drinking.”

“Maybe just one.” Blake felt pretty good, now. Torchwick was down—probably not dead, as she had seen the parachute as well, but still out for awhile. The pirates had made an end-around attack on the DUST shipment, but failed. She’d gotten the pictures, hopefully, and gotten home. _And who knows?_ Blake thought. _Maybe they’ll count that crashed Sea Harrier at the airport as a maneuvering kill. That would make me an ace. Wait…I got four the other day, plus that GRIMM I got over the Twin Cities with Yang on Hop One…holy shit, I’m_ already _an ace!_ Blake Belladonna found herself very much warming to the thought. Her mother was a triple ace. 

“You’re grinning like the proverbial cat.” Ruby was grinning too. She had done the math as well. “Just now realizing it? Me too.”

“Maybe two drinks.”

Ruby helped Blake postflight the aircraft. As Blake disappeared underneath an intake to check to make sure the drop tanks had separated cleanly, Ruby leaned against the landing gear. “Weissy got a kill too. That’s her first! Winter’s going to be proud of her.”

“She should be. Weiss deserves that.” Blake leaned out. “Did Sun and Neptune make it?”

“Oh yeah. They’re okay. Weirdest thing, though…”

“What’s that?”

“Neptune said he got jumped by something flying backwards. Then he realized it was something with forward-swept wings. I mean, we messed around with that in the 80s with the X-29, and I understand the Iranians have been messing around with modded F-5s with forward-swept wings, but I’ve never heard of one over here. Whoever it was, he stitched Neptune pretty good. If it hadn’t been for Weiss locking the bandit up, Neptune would be one dead naval aviator…” Ruby’s voice trailed off at seeing Blake’s face. The Faunus had gone pale as a sheet. “Blake?”

“Oh God, no.” Blake fell to a sitting position. Tears appeared at the edge of her eyes. “Oh God, no.”

_Not him. Not here._  
  


_Cleveland Lakefront Airport_

_Ruins of Cleveland, Ohio Dead Zone_

_23 April 2001_

Torchwick climbed off the boat, shivering. The storm was on them now; even if he hadn’t taken a nonscheduled dip in Lake Erie, the rain would soak him to the bone anyway. A man in overalls—one of Torchwick’s gang members—ran up to him, but Torchwick stripped off his helmet and tossed it into the man’s arms. The rain now soaked his hair, but he didn’t care. He reached into his flight suit, found a cigar that was miraculously intact, and stuck it in his mouth. There was no way to light it in the rain, but the taste of tobacco was something, at least.

Neo Politan waited under an umbrella. There was a bandage on her foot. She limped to him and hugged Torchwick. “Are you all right?” She nodded and threw him a tired thumbs-up. “How’s your Harrier?”

“Fucked,” she answered.

Torchwick sighed around the cigar. Two Sea Harriers gone. Someone was going to pay. “Where’s Sienna Khan?”

“Fuck her!” Neo snarled.

“I’d rather not.” Torchwick helped Neo limp towards the entrance to the underground hangars. The MiGs were being moved back underground, and Torchwick noticed among them was a curious looking aircraft with forward swept wings, painted red with black White Fang emblems on its twin tails. It looked like a F-5, except it wasn’t, or at least most of it wasn’t, with a single engine and bubble canopy…plus the strange looking wings. “Who does that belong to?” Neo shrugged. Torchwick was too tired to argue. Neo Politan embodied the word laconic. It wasn’t that she could not talk, it was just that she would not, no more than necessary.

They entered the hangar. Sienna Khan, who Torchwick had to admit looked rather fetching in the kimono she wore to bed, was waiting impatiently. “There you are! Where the hell have you been?”

Torchwick spit the cigar onto the floor. “Learning to swim.”

“I blame you for this,” she snapped. “Follow me.” She turned her back on them, stomping away. Neo turned to Torchwick, made a throat-cutting motion, then nodded in Sienna’s direction. Torchwick shook his head. Neo would murder Sienna in a heartbeat, but so many White Fang around, it would be impossible to kill Sienna and escape. Not that Torchwick did not strongly consider it.

Sienna stopped before one of the newly assembled MiGs. “I blame you for this,” she repeated. “Now the Americans know where we are. That F-14 undoubtedly had a camera pod on it—“

“It did,” Torchwick said in a tired voice. “I saw it.”

“Well, that’s just perfect, you idiot!” Sienna shrilled. “Once they develop that film, they’ll hit us like a ton of bricks!” She slammed a hand against the side of the MiG. “I should’ve scrambled Ilia in our last F-5 and hunted that Tomcat down!”

“And gotten her killed!” Torchwick shouted at her. “My God, woman! I got shot down by a F-15! The boat crew said that you lost _another_ MiG trying to attack the transport—which was plain stupid, by the way. There was more up there than that F-14. And you call _me_ an idiot!”

“Yes!” Sienna put a clawed finger in Torchwick’s face. “Because if you had air defenses worth a crap, you could’ve shot down that Tomcat before it even had a chance—“

“Oh sure!” Torchwick laughed. “And if I had a death ray, I’d be the ruler of Ohio!”

Sienna took a step forward. So did Neo, murder in her eyes. The two women stopped when a second man walked to them, hands raised. “Please, ladies and gentlemen. Shall we calm down and work on moving these aircraft to a new safe area? I assume you have one, Mr. Torchwick.”

“I do. And it’s no trouble getting there—which was what I was going to tell the illustrious High Leader here, _if_ she would pause long enough for me to tell her.” Torchwick fished for another cigar, a dry one.

The newcomer handed him one. Torchwick took him in. He wore a jet black flight suit, with red stripes embroidered on the sides. He was tall, with a shock of red hair, but a white mask covered his eyes. Slits were cut into the mask. “Thanks,” Torchwick said. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“I was the one who you just called plain stupid. You're not the first to have that opinion of me.” The redhead gave him a winning smile and stuck out a hand. “I’m Adam Taurus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That should answer the question of what Adam Taurus is going to fly in this story. 
> 
> A few quick historical notes, all from Vietnam. Bolo Flight is a reference to Operation Bolo (I would imagine Yang admires Robin Olds). Cricket was the name of the airborne command post (similar to an AWACS today) that flew at night over South Vietnam during the war--Moonbeam was the other callsign used. A good friend of my dad's flew on Cricket. Where Neptune refuses to bail out despite being on fire is based on an incident, also in Vietnam, where an A-1 Skyraider got shot up by a MiG. The pilot refused to bail out, dived, and blew out the fire, then returned to base. Just another day at the office. (Of course, in this story, maybe Neptune was over Lake Huron...)
> 
> And while I know it's weird to have Neo talking, I kinda like the idea that everything out of her mouth is going to be filthy.


	29. Love and Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the reconnaissance flight over Torchwick's hideout, Ironwood confronts Ozpin over the latter ordering the flight. Ozpin reminds Ironwood of his mysterious past, and what love can make people do.
> 
> A lesson Cardin Winchester is about to learn when it comes to Jaune and Pyrrha.

_Building 71414 (Commander’s Office, JRB Beacon)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_23 April 2001_

“God _dammit,_ Ozpin!” James Ironwood shouted. His fist hit Ozpin’s desk with enough force to crack the veneer. 

Ozpin’s face was placid, which angered Ironwood even further. “Why are you so angry, James?”

“Because you were told not to worry about the Torchwick Gang, and then you turn around and launch a raid on them!”

Glynda Goodwitch stood behind Ozpin, fighting unsuccessfully to keep a smirk off her face. “A reconnaissance mission is hardly a raid, General.” Her eyes met Winter Schnee’s, who stood behind and to Ironwood’s right side—exactly the same spot Goodwitch stood in with Ozpin. Winter’s expression reflected her name well, Goodwitch thought.

Ironwood glared at her. “A reconnaissance mission that was unnecessary. Hell, the whole damn thing was unnecessary.”

“You might add that we successfully stopped another hijacking,” Goodwitch replied, rubbing salt in the wound.

Ozpin stepped in before Ironwood went into apoplexy. “James, please. Sit down. You as well, Colonel Schnee.” Ironwood stood enraged for a moment, then slowly lowered himself into a chair. Winter remained defiantly standing. Once the general was seated, Ozpin continued. “You told me in this very office the day before yesterday that you would like to flatten the Torchwick Gang’s hideout, but didn’t have confirmation that they were in Cleveland, and that the CIA was worried we’d kill their informant. I have provided the former and avoided the latter.”

“Captain Ozpin, with respect,” Winter spoke, “it is the opinion of General Ironwood’s staff that the reconnaissance mission last night has made things worse. Another reconnaissance mission run this morning found nothing.”

Ironwood nodded. “Torchwick’s gone to ground.”

Ozpin raised an eyebrow. “James, the photographs taken by Lieutenant Belladonna show that they had the better part of a squadron at Cleveland Lakefront. You don’t just move a squadron of aircraft somewhere without someone knowing, and the Ohio Dead Zone is only so large. The next time Torchwick sticks his head out, we’ll slice it off.” He paused, and his smile faded. “That _is_ what you want, is it not, James?”

“Of course it is.” Ironwood leaned back in the chair. He glanced around the room. “Ladies, may I have a few moments alone with Captain Ozpin?”

“Certainly.” Goodwitch sauntered out with a last triumphant grin at Ironwood, followed stiffly by Winter, who shut the door behind her.

Ironwood massaged his greying temples. “Oz, listen. Okay, what you did last night was _mostly_ good. That’s not what I’m pissed about. I’m pissed because you didn’t tell me you were doing it.” He faced Ozpin. “Jesus, Ozpin. I’m your friend. Either you don’t trust me, or you miss being a professional spy that much.”

Ozpin shook his head. “I don’t miss being a spy at all, James. Being a spy cost me everything. As well as several million other people.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself. You didn’t launch those missiles, Ozpin.”

Ozpin shrugged. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now. What _does_ matter is that it doesn’t happen again. And that’s what I’m trying to prevent.”

“And that’s what _I_ am trying to prevent too, Ozpin!” Ironwood shouted in exasperation. “We’re on the same side!”

“Are we?” Ozpin raised an eyebrow. “The James Ironwood I knew always did the right thing. No matter the cost. You went back into a burning helicopter at Desert One and carried two men out, despite the fact that you got third-degree burns over half your body in the process. Because it was the right thing to do.” Ozpin’s finger hit the desk, though with less power than Ironwood’s fist. “And _this_ was the right thing to do. Despite whatever President Shawcross wants, despite whatever the CIA wants. You say you argued with the President and General Luna about this, and then turn around and tell me I don’t have to like something, but I have to do it because it’s my duty as an officer and a gentleman. But what about when there’s a higher calling, James?”

“Such as?”

“Such as the survival of the human race. She’s still out there, James.”

Ironwood closed his eyes. “You can say her name, Ozpin.”

“I won’t. I’ll use her codename, and that is all.” Another shrug. “Whether I call her by her real name or Salem, she is out there, and she still wants to finish what the Third World War started. And I don’t give a rat’s ass about what politicians want. I want to stop her.”

Ironwood looked tiredly at Ozpin. “Fine. I agree with that, at least. What’s your next move?”

“Right now, our old friend Rissa Arashikaze is on the phone with the President’s national security advisor and possibly one or two members of the House Committee on Intelligence. She’s saying that she had no idea the Torchwick Gang was holed up in the supposedly irradiated remains of Cleveland, Ohio, but that she will send in a team to investigate by midnight tonight. That team will find an empty nest. My counterparts at Grissom and Signal will be ordered to start running reconnaissance missions over Ohio. Torchwick, if he has any sense—and he’s not stupid—will dig a very deep hole and pull the dirt over on top of him for awhile.”

“Did you talk to Arashikaze this morning?” Ironwood, despite himself, chuckled. “That old salty bitch. I should’ve known you’d get her involved.”

“This is as far as her involvement goes. And no, I haven’t talked to her, but I know how the process works, James.” Ozpin got to his feet, hobbled over to the sideboard, and poured a cup of coffee. He offered one to Ironwood, who refused. He then leaned against the sideboard and took a sip. “So we no longer have to worry about the Torchwick Gang at our rear, and can concentrate fully on the barrier. If you’re right and Salem is about to unleash a new GRIMM offensive on us from the west, we can stop her there. If I’m right and she’s going to try something less overt, then at least we don’t have to worry about having Torchwick nipping at our heels.”

Ironwood gave him a wry smile. “You really do have all this figured out, don’t you?”

Ozpin gazed into his coffee cup. In his mind’s eye, he saw Salem as she once had been. “If I did,” he said softly, “we wouldn’t be in this situation.” Then he straightened up. “My next move, as it were, is to find out _why_ the White Fang went to being a strictly ground threat to suddenly adding an air component—and why they’re suddenly working with humans.”

“You don’t have to do that, Ozpin. We _do_ have the CIA for that.”

“I also have several pilots on this base who are determined to look into this matter no matter what we or the CIA think.”

“You’re referring to Belladonna and Ruby Flight.” He thumbed back towards the door. “Winter’s sister is involved, and her father will _not_ be pleased about that.”

Ozpin smiled. “Is that a feature or a bug?”

Ironwood smiled back. “A feature, as far as I’m concerned.” He got up. “All right, Ozpin. Against all common sense, I’m going to go along with this. But keep me in the loop, or so help me God, I will burn your ass. When I’m done with you, Salem will be the only one left on the planet who will take you in.” Ironwood saw Ozpin’s knuckles turn white around his coffee mug. “Sorry,” the general apologized. “I went too far on that.” He put a hand on Ozpin’s shoulder. “We all do silly shit for love, Oz. Quit beating yourself up over it. And for God’s sake, stop trying to compensate for a past that’s long gone.” 

Ironwood left, leaving Ozpin alone in his office. He walked over to his desk and sat down. He then opened a drawer and withdrew a yellowed envelope from beneath a group of files. In it was a photograph of a beautiful woman with blonde hair and blue eyes. She was giving the photographer a shy smile. The photo was dogeared and cracked, but it was the only one he had. 

Unseen by anyone, Ozpin began to cry bitterly.

_Squadron Dispersal Area A_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_23 April 2001_

Jaune Arc walked down the flightline as the sun set over it in a spectacular show of orange and red. Despite himself, it reminded him of Pyrrha Nikos. 

Tonight would be the first night they had trained together since the Lake Michigan Massacre, and Jaune was looking forward to it. Even though they really had only been doing these unofficial training missions for less than two weeks, Jaune felt more confident in his flying. Pyrrha had beaten him soundly in the practice intercepts they had done, but after each sortie, they sat in the cafeteria or in Jaune’s dorm room, going over the mission. Pyrrha was incredibly patient, pointing out his mistakes and what he could do to change them. The proof that he was learning—and the proof that he had talent, after all—was in the two kill marks now painted under _Crocea Mors’_ cockpit. While Jaune himself did not think it was all that, considering how easy the dogfight had been, there were a lot of other fighter noses at Beacon that did _not_ have kill marks on them.

And much to Jaune’s consternation, one of them belonged to the man walking towards him.

Cardinal Flight hadn’t been as lucky as Juniper or Ruby Flights. While they flew combat air patrols the same as everyone else, they were assigned to the Mississippi River Barrier, where there had not even been a stray GRIMM or two. It rankled on the pilots of Cardinal—and other flights as well, such as Coffee Flight—but the grumbling was generally good natured and directed at Ruby Flight for attracting trouble, though there were some mumbled derision about the four girls being “Ozpin’s pets.” 

Cardin Winchester drew even with Jaune. The two had avoided each other for the most part since their practice dogfight and the confrontation in the cafeteria. “Hey, Jauney.”

Jaune decided to not let it get under his skin. “Hey, Cardin,” he replied. 

“Where are you off to? Coffee’s got the night CAP, along with that new bunch that just showed up—Creamer.” Before Jaune could reply, Cardin continued. “Oh, that’s right. Going to do some night flying with your girl.” He clasped his hands in front of him and fluttered his eyelids. “Oh, how romantic! A moonlight flight with your girlfriend!”

Jaune forced a chuckle. “It’s not like that.”

Cardin laughed and nudged Jaune with his elbow. “Ah, come on, Jauney! You can tell me.” He dropped his voice. “Is night flying _all_ you two do?”

“What’re you talking about?” Jaune knew _exactly_ what Cardin was talking about, but he played dumb—for Pyrrha’s sake. 

“She a natural redhead?” Cardin drew closer. “Carpet match the drapes, all that?”

“Cardin, c’mon man.” Jaune brushed him off with a nervous laugh, but a hard hand gripped his shoulder.

“Oh no, Jauney boy,” Cardin growled, suddenly threatening. “We’re all guys here. Tell me. Does she suck di—“

Jaune shoved him away. “Knock it off, Cardin. It’s not like that!”

Cardin, taken by surprise, stumbled and nearly fell; his helmet bag dropped to the ground with a thunk and a cracking sound. Cardin stared at the bag and then back at Jaune, murder in his eyes. “That better not have been my helmet getting damaged, Jauney.”

“Just leave me alone.” Jaune continued to walk, but Cardin grabbed him. 

“You haven’t answered my question, _Lieutenant,”_ Cardin snapped.

“And he said leave him alone, _Captain._ ” Both men turned at the new voice, and abruptly realized whose F-16 they were standing in front of. Pyrrha stood there, having come out from behind the aircraft, hands on hips. She deliberately brushed off both her shoulders, and the three stripes on both of them—the Hellenic Air Force’s insignia for a major. 

Cardin pulled back. He reached down, picked up his helmet bag, and gave Jaune a death glare. “Figures you got to have your girlfriend come to your rescue, you Froggy fuck.”

“Captain Winchester!” Pyrrha snapped. 

Cardin suddenly whirled, executed a parade-ground salute to Pyrrha, and began to walk off before she returned the salute. “One day she isn’t going to be around to save your ass, Jauney.” He stalked away to catch up with the rest of his flight.

“ _Poutsa,_ ” Pyrrha hissed at Cardin’s back. Jaune didn’t speak Greek, but he knew enough to know that it was not a term of endearment. Then she faced him and blushed a little. “Sorry,” she said softly.

“It’s okay.” Jaune cradled his helmet back under his arm; he had been holding it at chest level, just in case he had to hit Cardin across the face with it. If it came to a fight, he knew that Cardin outweighed him about two to one. “But he’s right.” Pyrrha blinked in confusion. “You’re not always going to be around for me, Pyrrha. I have to fight my own fights.”

“We’re a team, Jaune. Like Ruby said, you fight with one of us, you scramble with all of us.” 

Jaune shook his head. “Pyrrha, it doesn’t look good for a guy to be defended by his girl—er, I mean, _a_ girl.” 

The two stood there in silence for a few moments, separated by three feet and a great deal more awkwardness. The fact that Pyrrha Nikos was a very attractive woman had not escaped Jaune’s attention, no matter his similar attraction to Weiss Schnee. The fact that Jaune Arc was a fairly handsome man had definitely not escaped Pyrrha’s attention. Then there was the night of the party: no one on the base—for that matter, no one period, so far as Jaune knew—was aware of Pyrrha’s guilt and shame. They had not said anything about it, even after leaving Ruby Flight’s room after the game of Risk. It was between them now, unsaid but there, and now there was the slip of the tongue by Jaune. 

_You’re not my girl,_ Jaune wanted to say, to apologize for Cardin’s crudity, hating himself for the idle curiousity if Pyrrha was indeed a natural redhead, because that meant he was as bad as Cardin for even thinking it. He had no possession of her, and to imply otherwise was insulting to both of them. But the words died on his lips on looking at her bright green eyes, and the sadness he saw in them. Pyrrha could not be his girl, Jaune thought, because there was no way a goddess like her could ever see anything in him. He was a project for her, nothing more—well, she was a friend, certainly, but that was all.

“We…we should probably get going,” was what Jaune said instead. “If you still want to.”

Jaune could not know that Pyrrha had been thinking along similar lines to him. _He doesn’t want me,_ she thought sadly to herself. _Of course, fool…he wants Weiss. And why not? Weiss is younger than me, more attractive, rich…and doesn’t drink herself into insensibility or throw up all over the toilet. And Weiss doesn’t murder people in their parachutes._

“Ah…sure. Of course!” Pyrrha put brightness into her voice that fooled neither of them. “See you up there.” She pasted a smile on her face and nodded at him.

Jaune smiled back with a smile that was just as fake. “Right.” He walked towards his Mirage.

Pyrrha silently cursed herself some more and climbed into her F-16, not noticing the expressions on her ground crew’s faces. The pilots’ fake smiles hadn’t fooled them either. The crew chief helped Pyrrha strap in, then climbed down the ladder and removed it as Pyrrha dropped the canopy. As she taxied out, she spotted Winchester’s F-15 down the dispersal area. Despite herself, the rage welled up inside of her. She didn’t know if she was channeling her frustration with herself and Jaune into hatred for Cardin, but she swore to herself on the spot.

One way or another, Cardin Winchester was going to pay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, Salem exists in this world. 
> 
> Ozpin's mention that General Ironwood was badly wounded at Desert One is a reference to Operation Eagle Claw, the failed attempt to rescue the US Embassy hostages in Iran in 1980. In this universe, half of Ironwood's body isn't metal, but would be pretty badly burned. (It also means that the Iranian Revolution of 1979 also happened in this universe as well.) Incidentally, for those of you who remember the old GI Joe Marvel Comics series, the reason why Snake-Eyes can't talk was heavily implied to be due to being horrifically burned at Desert One as well, though the circumstances were different in the comics.


	30. Follow You Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blake and Yang to to Junior Xiong's bar to see if he knows how the White Fang acquired so many fighters. He does, but he needs two things: money and Yang. 
> 
> Much to Blake's chagrin, Yang's willing. But why is Blake jealous?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually one of my favorite chapters that I've written on this story. I love writing Blake and Yang, which is why Blake takes Neptune's place in this scene. There's more of a dynamic there. 
> 
> Though what Blake and Yang are at Junior's for is fairly serious, this chapter is meant to be kind of funny.

_Junior’s Dance Club and Bar_

_Madison, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_23 April 2001_

Not long after arriving at Beacon, Yang Xiao Long had her motorcycle shipped to the base with her belongings. Yang had grown up with such fighter pilot movies as _The Huntsman, The Great Waldo Pepper, Red Skies Over Poland,_ and her favorite, _Top Gun._ Seeing Shaun Cruise speeding down a perimeter road, racing a F-14 taking off, had convinced Yang at an impressionable age that one day, she too would own badass sunglasses, a badass bomber jacket, and a badass motorcycle, in that order. Now she had all three, but it had been awhile since she had time to indulge herself and her beloved Bumblebee bike. 

“Well, this is it,” she said over her shoulder as they pulled up in front of Junior’s Club. It was a converted factory in the seedier section of Madison. Technically, it had been declared off-limits to military personnel, after several fistfights and near riots, but the Military Police rarely enforced the rule; most pilots, however, preferred the more upscale clubs near the University of Wisconsin, or the wildly themed ones at Wisconsin Dells. Yang had other reasons for liking it. Even from outside, across the street, she could feel the pulse of the bass of _James Brown is Dead._ Yang smiled, climbed off her bike, took off her helmet, and checked to make sure the trip down from Beacon hadn’t damaged her precious _Bumblebee._ “You going to get off, Blake? We need to go and see my friend.”

Blake Belladonna took a moment. Several moments, actually. The dogfight with Roman Torchwick rattled her a little. The news that Adam Taurus was probably on the same continent as her terrified her a lot. Driving with Yang was somewhere in between. Like most fighter pilots, Yang tended to think she was more anointed than pointed, and drove her motorcycle the same way she flew her F-15. There had been a few times that Blake was close enough to the side of an eighteen-wheeler that she could have touched the trailer without even stretching out her hand. With shaking hands, she took off her helmet. Yang, who didn’t notice her friend’s pale expression of terror, took the helmet and put both in the motorcycle’s saddlebags. “Ready?” Blake nodded. “I’ll warn you, this place can be a little rough…but the drinks are pretty good.”

“I could definitely use a drink,” Blake murmured as they crossed the street. Beneath her ribbon, her ears twitched involuntarily.

There was no line to get in; it was a Monday night. The two bouncers at the front door were both dressed in nicely-cut business suits, snap-brim hats about a century out of style, and red mirrored sunglasses. They looked bored as they noticed the two women walking across the street, then both took an involuntary step backwards. “It’s her!” one of them shouted. Both fled into the club. The two pilots could hear them frantically trying to lock the door, but Yang drew back a foot and kicked the doors open, sending both bouncers stumbling backwards.

Yang stepped into the club like an empress, and found herself staring down the barrels of at least eight pistols and one shotgun. She smiled and raised her hands. The Vengaboys abruptly halted as the DJ went under his console.

“I see they know you here.” Blake walked in behind her, hands behind her back. 

The crowd of bouncers parted to reveal a pair of identical twins. Both brunettes, one was dressed in red and another in white, but in the same style of strapless dresses. They stared daggers at Yang. Blake turned to Yang. “These your friends?”

“No,” both twins said at the same time.

Yang grinned sheepishly and scratched the back of her head. “Yeaaah…remember that time last week or so ago when I came in with the black eye? Well…I was sort of in here and sort of got into a fight.”

“She means she tore the place apart!” the girl in the red dress snapped.

“You guys attacked me first!” Yang insisted.

“After you grabbed Junior by the balls!” This from the girl in the white dress.

“He was getting too fresh with me.” Yang folded her arms across her breasts, as if that finished the argument.

“You led him on!” Red dress again.

Blake raised a hand. “Listen, please! We’re just here to see Junior.”

“Well, he’s not here!” To Blake’s surprise, it was Red Dress again. “It’s a Monday night. Junior’s got the night off.”

Yang rolled her eyes. “He lives here…it’s Miltia, right?” She addressed White Dress. 

“ _I’m_ Melanie, _she’s_ Miltia,” White Dress—Melanie—replied. She pointed at Blake. “Who’s this? Your bottom bitch?” She obviously thought that was uproariously funny, and began to laugh. Miltia joined her, quickly followed by the bouncers.

Blake sighed. Among the Faunus, often, there was an alpha to a pack, and sometimes the alpha needed to remind people who was in charge. While Yang had been committing breaking and entering, Blake had quietly slipped off her belt and wrapped it around her right hand. 

Now Blake moved like a striking snake. Her right hand shot outwards and let the belt extend to almost its full length, with the solid buckle at the end. The effect was like a whip, and the buckle hit Miltia right between the eyes. 

The white-dressed twin went down like she had been shot. Melanie turned in shock, only for Blake to spin the belt over her head and clock Melanie atop the skull; she joined her sister on the floor. Pistols were raised again, and Yang, who had thoughtfully concealed a nine millimeter at the small of her back, wondered if she would live long enough to grab it.

_“Stop!”_ The authoritative male voice shot across the room. “Stop!” The voice belonged to one of the biggest humans Blake had ever seen: he towered over them, nearly seven feet tall. Muscles bulged under the business suit he wore; he looked more like a professional wrestler than a nightclub owner. What was confusing was the look of fear on his face when he saw Yang. “Oh, hey, Blondie. You’re here.” The man’s expression was pained. “Why? Didn’t you do enough damage the last time you were here?” He saw the twins on the floor and the belt dangling from Blake’s hand. “And you brought a friend! Oh, God…and I was just going over my insurance earlier…”

Blake turned to Yang. “What the hell did you _do_ the last time you were here? Burn the place to the ground?”

Yang laughed nervously. “Um…I didn’t burn anything.” She reconsidered. “I think.” At Junior’s sounds of apoplexy, she waved her hands. “Junior, please! Me and my friend just came in to talk and have some drinks. That’s all. The twins here got nasty and…” Her voice trailed off. “My friend’s a Marine,” Yang finished, as if that explained everything.

Junior rubbed his eyes. “Okay, okay…fine. Come to the back.” He paused. “Ah, is your friend 21?” Blake nodded. “Just checking. It’s the law, you know.” He motioned them over towards the bar as the guns were lowered. Yang pushed her way through the bouncers to follow Junior.

Blake stepped over the weakly stirring Miltia. “I’m the _top_ bitch,” she growled at the girl. “Marines don’t bottom.”

Miltia nodded painfully. “Thank you for your service.”

Junior—whose full name was Junior Xiong; Blake didn’t think he looked Chinese, but for that matter, neither did Yang—took both of them into the back rooms, behind the bar. “Ladies, can I get you a drink?” His demeanor was still nervous; Blake wondered just what kind of damage Yang had done to the place.

“Strawberry Sunrise,” Yang answered.

“Just a Dr. Pepper.” At Yang’s raised eyebrow, Blake said, “The way tonight’s going, I don’t want to screw up my head.”

Junior made both drinks as the two pilots sat on a long, red couch. Everything in the place was red or black. Then he made himself one as well, and sat on a similar couch across from them. “What can I do for you?”

Yang didn’t mince words. “I’m guessing you have some contacts with organized crime.”

Junior nearly choked on his drink. “Say what? Oh, no, ma’am, I don’t—“

“Come on. Do you think I came in here randomly last time? You’ve got a rep, Junior: people who need something come to you.”

Junior set his drink down. “I thought you were a fighter pilot, not a cop.”

“We’re both. OSI.” Yang referred to the Office of Special Investigations, the USAF’s investigative police force, the service’s equivalent to the more famous NCIS of the Navy. She was also lying. Blake kept her expression blank.

Junior leaned back. “Shit,” he said after awhile. “Maybe I need a lawyer.”

“Nothing like that,” Yang assured him. “You give us some info, we don’t go to the cops. We also don’t tear the place apart.” Blake covered her eyes with a hand. “We keep things nice and quiet. Heck, I can probably get the off-limits restriction lifted on your place. I know the MPs don’t really enforce that, but it can’t hurt, right?”

Junior mulled it over. “Okay. That’s fair. This isn’t about—“ he glanced at Blake “—the person you were looking for last time, is it?”

“Nope.” Yang tossed back half of the Sunrise. “We’re interested in the White Fang. As in how the hell they are able to consistently put up a squadron or two of fighters every time they go up.”

Blake stepped in. “You heard about the attempted pirate raid on Milwaukee, right?” Junior nodded; that had been all over the news, though no names were mentioned, nor was the White Fang’s involvement. “The White Fang were there, led by Roman Torchwick. Do you know who is providing the Fang pilots, aircraft, and the money to afford both?”

Junior got up from the couch, drink in hand. He sipped it as he thought for a moment. “I don’t know about the money. But I do know about the aircraft, and a little about the pilots. But if you want me to cross the White Fang, I’m gonna need more than a promise you two aren’t going to tear shit up and dropping a restrictrion that isn’t enforced.”

“Like what?”

Junior shrugged. “Money. And maybe a little…something…from you, Blondie.” 

To Blake’s surprise, Yang did not even bat an eye. “Sure. What did you have in mind—for both?”

“For the money, let’s say…a hundred grand. And for the other…” Junior smiled. “You use your imagination.” 

“This is bullshit.” Both of them turned to Blake, who was purpling with rage. “We don’t have that kind of money, and Yang, you’re not seriously considering—“

Yang shrugged. “We need the info. I can take one for the team.”

“But you can’t do that!”

“Blake, I’m a grown woman.” Yang turned back to Junior. “Let’s say seventy-five thou, which we’ll have to get you later in the week. As for me, after you give us the information.”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this!” Blake exclaimed. “It’s degrading!”

“Blake, don’t make me repeat myself. Besides…” Yang uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. She was wearing bike pants that fit her like a second skin, and a T-shirt under her unzipped jacket that showed a great deal of cleavage. “…I admit I’m feeling a bit hungry tonight.” She shot Junior a sultry look, much to Blake’s nausea. The Faunus covered it by gulping down half her soda. “You gonna talk, Junior, or you going to keep staring?”

Junior shook his head free of the sight of Yang’s assets. “Okay, deal.” He poured himself another drink. “As far as the aircraft go, the Fang—and Torchwick—are getting them from buyers all over the world. Mostly China and India, but some here in the States, too. You can get F-5s pretty easy anywhere, and the MiGs come from the Chinese and Indians. _How_ they’re getting here I don’t know, but I do know that some of the other pirate gangs just bring them in on ships. Bribe a couple of port officials in Mexico or Canada, and ship them by rail to wherever they need to go. Or they fly them under the radar. You Air Force types can’t cover everything, especially over the Dead Zones.”

“By rail?” Blake asked, remembering the White Fang’s train job in Germany. “How does that work? The rail network is watched!”

Junior gave her a pitying look. “Miss, do you know how much rail mileage there is in North America? How often it’s inspected? How easy it is to bribe an inspector to look the other way? And that’s just in the Remnant. In the Dead Zones, there aren’t any inspectors at all.”

“But the Dead Zones are overrun with GRIMM!”

“True,” Junior admitted, “so they have to be careful. But the GRIMM aren’t everywhere, and they have to worry about bad weather. Trains don’t. Yeah, you have to worry about old bridges washing out or collapsing, or things like that, and you route around the radiation zones. But you’d be surprised how much rail traffic goes across the Dead Zones, and nobody notices. Hell, I know of a guy who smuggled 42 cars worth of illegal Chinese electronics from Vancouver to Denver. Straight past the hot zones at Seattle, over the Cascades and the Rockies. Made a bundle off that one.” 

“You speak from experience,” Yang said. Junior just smiled. “Okay, so the Fang buys their aircraft overseas, ships them over to the Dead Zones, and hides them in there. I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me their hideouts.”

Junior shook his head vehemently. “You’re not paying me enough, Blondie. Even if I knew, and I don’t, you’re not paying me enough. I don’t want the twins finding me behind the bar with my head ripped off and the White Fang emblem painted in my own damn blood.” Yang glanced at Blake, who gave a short nod: she had seen it done, and worse. Neither Sienna Khan nor Adam Taurus were merciful towards informants or spies. 

“How much would it cost to ship, say, a MiG-21 from China?” Blake asked.

Junior mentally did some figures. “About ten grand, give or take. The plane itself is about quarter of a mil, depending on what condition it’s in.” Blake did some figuring of her own. What she had seen at Cleveland, then, was roughly three million dollars worth of equipment. That didn’t count missiles and fuel. The White Fang did not have that kind of money. When her parents were running the organization, and until the North Sea oil boom, it was all Ghira Belladonna could do to feed Menagerie, let alone buy weapons. Even after oil had been discovered, it went to supplying the nation. The White Fang were allowed to raise money in Menagerie, but given the organization’s increasingly poor reputation, donations were not as large as they once were—and they certainly were not enough for Sienna Khan to have her own air force. 

“Mr. Xiong,” she asked, “how much would a DUST module go for on the open market?”

Junior looked at her strangely, but once more gave it some thought. “Intact? Probably ten million.”

“Would you…know anything about that?”

“Well, I don’t know if that’s part of the deal…” Yang took her jacket off and stretched. Her breasts strained under the shirt, and it was cold enough in the room to show that Yang wasn't wearing a bra. “Yeah, Torchwick’s gang nabbed two of them. Already sold them off, though. Don’t know who to.” Yang pulled off her boots and wiggled her socks at Junior. He swallowed audibly. “I honestly don’t, really!”

Blake fought the urge to walk out, and deck Junior on her way. And possibly Yang. _What’s wrong with me?_ she asked herself. _Yang’s right. She’s a grown woman. If she wants to rut with this asshole, that’s her business._

It still pissed her off. 

The numbers still weren’t quite adding up, but Blake decided to move on before Yang started stripping off more clothes. “Okay, you said you knew something about the pilots.” When Junior didn’t answer, Blake cleared her throat. Junior tore his eyes away from a smirking Yang and back to Blake.

“Right, pilots.” Junior finished off his second drink. “I don’t know how the White Fang recruits for pilots, but I do know that they don’t actually recruit from the gangs. The gangs are mostly human, and the Faunus that work for Torchwick or Neopolitan or the Skyblazers are in it for the money, not Sienna Khan’s crusade. The gangs might given them a little training here and there, but it’s not like Torchwick can take up a dozen Fangers and teach them how to fly without someone noticing.”

“So where are they learning how to fly?” Yang took off her socks and wiggled her toes next. Apparently Junior had a foot fetish, because it was all he could do to keep his eyes off of her. _She’s enjoying this,_ Blake thought. She threw Yang a look to stop.

“Er…flight schools.” Blake rolled her eyes, but Junior insisted. “No, really! Private flight schools all over the world.”

“Seriously?”

“Sure. You walk in off the street, sign up, and they teach you how to fly. Simple as that. Of course, it costs money, but the Fang doesn’t seem to have a problem with that these days.”

“But flight schools can’t teach you how to fly high-performance fighters.”

Junior shrugged. “Hey, I said I only knew a little. But I guess the rest of it they could get over the Dead Zones somewhere. Hell, you could hide a whole air force in Russia, or for that matter, out West here.” He poured himself another drink, visibly sweating. Yang licked her lips suggestively. 

Blake had enough. That was about all Junior could probably tell her anyway, and at the rate they were going, Yang and the big man were going to screw right in front of her. She swiftly drank the rest of the soda—her mouth was dry, drier than it should be—and stood up. “Well, Mr. Xiong, thank you. I’m sure we’ll be getting back to you on your payment.”

“My pleasure, Miss.” Junior didn’t even look at Blake.

“I’ll be out in a bit, Blake.” Yang stood up and began walking towards Junior.

“You…um…you can wait in the bar!” Junior yelled at Blake as the Faunus left. “Tell the bartender it’s all on me!” Yang knelt in front of him and began working on his belt. 

Blake fled the room before she threw up. She stalked out into the bar area. The twins spotted her, but they also saw the expression on her face and wisely gave her plenty of room. So did the bouncers. Blake was not sure if she was happy about that or not—she really wanted to kill something. Or at least maim the hell out of it.

She made it out of the bar, and took some deep breaths of the cool night air. Once she had calmed down some, she walked over to the motorcycle and sat down on it. One part of her wanted to just drive off and leave Yang, but that would be rather petty, not to mention the fact that Blake didn’t know how to operate a motorcyle. Instead, she sulked and wondered why on earth she was even sulking about it. _Junior’s a thug—saw plenty like him in the White Fang—but he’s not bad looking. If Yang wants to bang him, so what? It’s her decision. Sure, she’s essentially screwing him for information, but if that gets us closer to bringing down the White Fang…no, it’s not worth that,_ Blake thought angrily. _Not even Adam is worth that._ Then she cursed herself for thinking about Adam. One day, Blake promised herself, she was going to open that sealed box, but it wasn’t going to be tonight. There wasn’t enough liquor in Junior’s bar for that.

To her surprise, she saw Yang walking out of the bar, fully clothed, a smile on her face. Blake knew she wasn’t able to hide the disgust on hers. “That was fast,” she said with heavy sarcasm. “Either you’re that good or he’s that bad.”

“Oh, combination of both.” Yang wiped her mouth, and to Blake’s surprise, she saw blood. She bared her teeth in rage. “Did he hurt you?” the Faunus shouted. If he had, Blake was going to go back into the club and go scorched earth. She would do so much damage that a hundred years from now, the people of Madison, Wisconsin would _still_ talk about it.

Yang laughed. “Oh, hell no. It’s not my blood.” She retrieved their helmets and handed Blake hers. “We should probably get going. Junior’s going to be upset, but he’ll get his money.”

After seeing Yang leave, Melanie and Miltia looked at each other in confusion. The Marine girl had been visibly upset, but Blondie looked self-satisfied. The twins walked into the back room. 

Junior lay on the floor, doubled over. His pants and underwear were around his ankles, but his face was beet red and he was trying to force air in between clenched teeth. Both hands were over his genitals, cradling himself. Once more, Melanie and Miltia looked at each other.

“Don’t just stand there,” Junior gritted out with a gasp. “Get me some ice!” The twins ran to the bar. “She _bit_ me! I can’t believe she bit me!” Junior’s voice raised to scream. “Blondie, you know what you are? You’re a dirty son of a _bitch!”_ The twins helpfully put a bag of ice on his wound. He winced. “I hope she never finds her damn mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of the movies noted at the beginning, "The Great Waldo Pepper" and of course "Top Gun" are the only ones that exist (though I guess "The Huntsman" exists in the RWBY Chibi universe). And speaking of movies, Junior's second-to-last line in this story is the last line from "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly." Heh. Couldn't resist. 
> 
> I make no apologies for Junior's love for 1990s dance tunes. Remember the year this is set in...and Blake's little trick with the belt buckle? My dad watched a Marine friend of his clear out a bar in Long Beach with that tactic. Blake's a badass in any universe.


	31. Broken Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pyrrha Nikos has watched Cardin Winchester bully Jaune Arc for too long. 
> 
> And now Cardin's going to pay. Dearly.

_Building 92613 (Vytal Flag Threat and Exercise Briefing Room A)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_24 April 2001_

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Hop Seven,” Glynda Goodwitch announced. All the flights were in attendance today: Ruby, Juniper, Coffee, Cardinal, Sun, and Creamer. “Today we move on into a more multidimensional threat: multiple threats, multiple bogies. As many of you know, when fighting GRIMM, you will usually be outnumbered—but this is also true of fighting human or Faunus opponents as well. Often as not, you will initially not be in a 1V1 situation, but a 3V1 or 4V1. If this is the case, you must learn how to deal with multiple opponents. Yes, Oberleutnant Schnee?”

Weiss stood in the semidarkness of the briefing room. “Colonel Goodwitch, if you are by yourself, isn’t it wise to break off the fight? Better to retire and save the aircraft, rather than push a bad position?”

Goodwitch nodded. “I’m glad to see you’ve been paying attention in Wing Commander Port’s class, Oberleutnant. Yes, it is best not to get into a situation where you face multiple opponents alone. However, real world situations occasionally leave you in such a situation. In fact, Captain Wukong and Lieutenant Belladonna found themselves in just such a situation a few days ago. And you may not be lucky enough to be fighting inexperienced, green pilots such as those fielded by the White Fang.” Weiss nodded and sat. 

Goodwitch brought up the now familiar map of the Yooper Range over the Upper Michigan Peninsula. “Though we try to be as realistic as possible here at Vytal Flag, when you are facing human or Faunus opponents, most of the time you _will_ be facing second-rate pilots. Pirate bands are often the bottom of the barrel. As for terrorist groups like the White Fang, we are still assessing that threat, but—for now, at least—it seems to be much the same situation.” She briefly met the eyes of Yang and Blake. Before the briefing that morning, she had read Blake’s hastily typed up report. Blake had left out the spicier parts of the incident at Junior’s Club, but what was there was bad enough. 

“However,” Goodwitch continued, “sometimes you will encounter skilled pirates, and there is always the possibility of third-force groups.” By that she meant foreign countries. At the moment, no country in the world was openly at war with each other, but everyone in the room knew how fast that could change. “In any case, if you can beat your fellow pilots here at Beacon, then air pirates, White Fang, or even third-force elements should present less of a problem. That is also why you often face dissimilar aircraft, so you can learn the different types of aircraft and their strengths and weaknesses, aside from your own.”

Another slide came up, showing the opposing forces for the hop.

_RED FORCE—Cardinal Flight_

_Winchester, Cardin (USAF)—F-15C Eagle_

_Thrush, Russel (USAF)—F-16C Viper_

_Bronzewing, Dove (USAF)—CF-18A Hornet_

_Lark, Sky (RMAF)—Hawk 200_

_BLUE FORCE—Juniper Flight_

_Nikos, Pyrrha (HAF)—F-16C Viper_

There were murmurs at that, a lot of them. Ruby leaned back in her seat and looked at Pyrrha behind her. “Who did you piss off?” Pyrrha said nothing, and simply stared straight ahead.

Goodwitch held a hand up for silence. “In this case, Major Nikos will demonstrate how—and if—a well-flown fighter can take on four equally well-flown fighters, and win. That is, of course, a rather large if. Cardinal Flight, meanwhile, will demonstrate how a flight uses mutual support to take on one aircraft. It is all too easy to get in each other’s way up there. As we have learned in earlier hops, in the end, it is all 1V1. Here I must credit Captain Wukong with his brilliant survival against no less than eighteen opponents over Lake Michigan.”

Sun, who sat behind Juniper Flight next to Neptune—and characteristically had his flight suit zipped down to his navel—merely shrugged. “Nothing to it.” There were hoots and catcalls sent in his direction, but the Faunus simply basked in it. When everyone had returned their attention back to Goodwitch, Jaune turned back to Sun and whispered, “Gutsiest move I’ve ever seen, man.” Sun winked at him.

“Are there any questions?” Goodwitch looked at Cardinal Flight, specifically Cardin. She half-expected some boast, but to her pleasant surprise, he seemed focused. Despite his braggart nature, Cardin was smart enough to realize that this mission would be nowhere near as easy as it looked. The rest of his flight wore similar expressions; Sky looked worried.

Pyrrha seemed placid, but Goodwitch noticed something in the Greek woman’s green eyes, even across a darkened auditorium, that frightened even her. 

“No questions, then? Very well. Juniper Flight, Major Nikos, man your planes. The rest of us will remain here.” 

“Pyrrha—“ Jaune began, but she only replied, “See you in a little while,” and left.

“What’s with her?” Nora asked. 

“I don’t know,” Jaune replied, “but I’m going to stop this. This is bullshit, her being chosen like this! Especially after what she’s been through.” Both Ren and Nora looked at him with questioning glances, but Jaune didn’t elaborate. Crete was Pyrrha’s to talk about. He got up and went to find Goodwitch.

Jaune found the colonel in the hallway—alone. She turned to him. “Yes, Lieutenant Arc?”

“Ma’am, permission to speak freely?”

Goodwitch cocked her head to one side, curious. “Proceed.”

“This is a stupid mission.”

She chuckled. “Don’t spare my feelings, Lieutenant; tell me how you feel. Very well—how is this a stupid mission? I thought I explained it well enough.”

“Yes, ma’am. But Major Nikos—she’s, well…” Jaune faced Goodwitch squarely. “Colonel, I don’t think she’s in the right mindset for this. Her history—“

“I am aware of the Crete Incident, Lieutenant.”

“Then, speaking as the flight commander of Juniper Flight, Colonel, I have to protest you assigning her to this.”

Goodwitch, to Jaune’s surprise, put a hand on his shoulder. “Lieutenant, your devotion to your flight is commendable, but I thought she would have told you.” The hand fell away as Goodwitch began to head back to the auditorium. “This entire mission was Major Nikos’ idea.”

_Yooper Training Range_

_Near Iron Mountain, Michigan, United States of Canada_

_24 April 2001_

Cardin Winchester kept his head moving. The F-15 was designed for this very thing: its bubble canopy gave excellent vision everywhere but directly under him—and he was fairly certain that Pyrrha Nikos was not below him. He paid special attention to directly behind the twin tails of his fighter, but the sky was empty. Over to his right was Dove Bronzewing, in his CF-18, and over to the left and behind was Russel Thrush’s F-16 and Sky Lark’s Hawk, just within visual range. 

Pyrrha had taken off first and disappeared. To at least make the fight somewhat even, Cardinal Flight was not permitted to switch on their radars until they reached the range area. Under normal circumstances, they would also have E-3 AWACS support, but that would also defeat the purpose of the mission. Cardin had spread Cardinal Flight out into two mutually supporting pairs. As soon as the range controller had announced “Fight’s on,” he and Russel had switched on their radars, becoming the “eyeballs” to Sky’s and Dove’s “shooters.” 

That had been five minutes ago. 

Cardin stole another glance behind him. He knew Pyrrha was good, and he also suspected that the Greek girl was, quite frankly, pissed off. He wondered if he could rattle her cage a bit by radioing a challenge over the open radio channel; something about that moron Jaune should do it. His finger hovered over the mike button, but he pulled back at the last second. It could backfire on him, and unlike on the flightline, Goodwitch—and probably Ozpin—were listening.

“Russel to Cardin. Anything?”

“No joy,” Cardin replied. He checked his RWR gear. It was picking up nothing.

“You don’t think she bugged out?”

Cardin shook his head, though Russel couldn’t see it. “Negative. She’s out here somewhere.” He looked around again. “These damn clouds. That bitch could be anywhere.”

The sky over the forested hills of Michigan was indeed thickly covered in clouds, the leading edge of a storm coming in from Canada. The gray clouds were building into thunderheads, promising some rough afternoon weather over the Great Lakes. For Cardinal Flight, it was like flying through the halls of some heavenly cathedral.

Above and to the right, about seven miles back, Pyrrha stalked Cardinal Flight like a wolf hunting a herd of deer.

She kept her radar off. Cardinal had come it at 15,000 feet; Cardin evidently expected her to be hiding at low level, using the terrain of the hills to mask her F-16. Pyrrha had actually grabbed altitude as soon as she was out of visual range of Beacon, climbing to almost the aircraft’s ceiling, where the tops of even the thunderheads were below her and the sky above her was such a dark blue it was nearly black. Her search for Cardinal Flight was entirely visual, trusting to her superb vision. Cardin was looking in the wrong place, and as a result, had flown several miles past and below her.

Now Pyrrha had to think in four dimensions: the normal three plus time. She rolled to her left and entered an almost lazy dive. If Cardinal Flight was to do a sudden turn to clear their tails, they would detect her almost instantly, but she knew Cardin had made a cardinal mistake: expecting the enemy to do what Cardin expected, not what she was capable of. 

She flew through a squall line of clouds; rain streaked over her canopy for a moment, then she was through, directly behind the trailing section, Sky and Russel. She was in their blind spot, below and behind, where the fighters’ tails would blank out the view. Gently, Pyrrha pushed the throttle forward, closing the distance as wisps of clouds drifted past. She mentally selected Sky’s Hawk 200: it was the smallest and the hardest to see, and in the kind of dogfight that she planned, he needed to be eliminated first. 

On one wing hardpoint of her F-16 was an orange instrumentation pod, transmitting data in real time back to Beacon; on the other was an inert Sidewinder. The seeker head was still active, however, and she used it to lock onto the Hawk’s engine. The Sidewinder began to growl, and she got closer, to where the Sidewinder was snarling. She waited a half-second longer, then pulled the trigger. 

Were this real, a missile would have leapt off one of the rails and impacted Sky’s Hawk seconds later. Instead, pulling the trigger activated the F-16’s gun camera, which would show her locked onto the Malaysian fighter. “Pyrrha, Fox Two on the Hawk.” 

The sudden radio call visibly startled Cardinal Flight; Pyrrha thought she could actually see it ripple through the flight. Sky threw his aircraft into a hard right break, but it was too late. “Roger,” radioed Range Control, “Sky’s a mort.” Sky cursed loud and long, but he had just been killed in simulation, so he had to fly down to 10,000 feet and proceed home to Beacon in a straight line.

Pyrrha slammed the throttle forward to the stops, engaging the afterburner. The F-16 shot forward through Cardinal Flight, which had yet to recover from the “death” of Sky Lark. She came out of afterburner, slammed the stick into her left knee and stomped the left rudder pedal; the F-16 went into a murderous nine-G turn. Her G-suit squeezed hard to keep blood in her brain, but Pyrrha barely noticed: she was now a part of the F-16 as much as if she had been built into it. This was the Viper’s element: the close-quarter turning fight which few other aircraft could match— _if_ Cardinal Flight fought by her rules.

As she came out of the turn, she saw that they were. Cardin and Dove had broken right, but Russel had broken left; the F-15 and the CF-18 were out of position. Out of the corner of one eye, Pyrrha could already see that Cardin and Dove were reversing their break to get back in the fight, but she had a few precious seconds to kill Russel Thrush.

Russel did his best. He turned into her, a half-second too late to keep her off his tail, but stayed in the turn, trying to drag her back into Cardin and Dove. Pyrrha eased back on the throttle and popped her speedbrakes a fraction, two butterfly wings opening on either side of the F-16’s engine. That opened the distance, and one flick of the right thumb switched from heatseeking Sidewinders to radar-guided AMRAAMs—or would have, had this not been an exercise.

With a brief second of alarm, Pyrrha caught herself wishing it was real.

Lighting off her radar warned Russel that he was being tracked, and now his F-16 suddenly flicked over into a dive, trying to lose her in the clouds. A quick half-second glance told Pyrrha that Cardin and Dove were just about behind her. Her RWR shrilled for her attention, and showed two radar cones: the F-15 and CF-18 were tracking her as well. In the space of a single second, Pyrrha hauled back the stick, then once more slammed it left, then dived. The F-16 climbed, turned, and rolled into a high-speed yo-yo. The sudden maneuver broke Cardin’s lock, but kept hers steady on Russel. “Pyrrha, Fox Three on the F-16.” 

A half-second. “Roger. Russel is a mort.”

No time to waste, she mused. Cardin, with admirable speed, was back on her tail, radar searching for her. 

Pyrrha had to dive, to convert speed to energy; if she climbed, Cardin would get an easy kill. The clouds swallowed her, and she turned the dive into a tight corkscrew. Her left hand stabbed a button on the throttle, dropping chaff and flares in her wake. She waited another half-second, then made a hard right break. She came out of the clouds, and smiled beneath the oxygen mask: Cardin and Dove had done exactly what she anticipated. She knew that they would not follow her into the clouds—too much chance of a simulated ambush, or worse, a real midair collision—and now she had appeared at Dove’s three o’clock as they waited for her to pop out of the clouds at the Canadian’s nine o’clock, where she had dropped the flares. Dove spotted her and immediately broke into her, but Pyrrha struck first. “Pyrrha, Fox Three on the Hornet.”

Dove had been a millisecond too late in his break. “Roger,” Range Control said, a note of amazement in the controller’s voice. “Dove is a mort.” The CF-18 leveled out and flew past Pyrrha; Dove threw her a salute as he went by her.

Cardin was the last one left, and he panicked. Pyrrha Nikos was suddenly no longer the cute natural redhead girlfriend of the French Noodle; she was a savage demon bent on vengeance. He hit his afterburners and turned away from her, presenting a perfect heat source for a Sidewinder shot. Abruptly, he realized it, came out of afterburner, and shot into a climb. Pyrrha pulled the stick back and pushed her throttles forward, following him into the climb. She realized Cardin wasn’t quite as panicked as she thought: he had climbed into the sun peeking out of the clouds as they shot through them; Range Control would probably rule any Sidewinder shot as a miss, and she was too close for an AMRAAM shot. If Cardin was smart, he could simply leave her behind, level out, and reengage on his own terms, or hammerhead around and attack: the F-15 was far better in the vertical than she was.

But Pyrrha had another card left to play. She switched to guns and lined up her gunsight. “Pyrrha, guns, guns, guns on the Eagle!” She did not actually pull the trigger; her F-16 carried live rounds just in case a stray GRIMM should show up, just as Cardin’s F-15 did. The kill would be recorded by the instrumentation pod, but she wasn’t trying to “kill” Cardin with the gun, but herd him. If Cardin kept his head, she mused, he would just keep accelerating, out of gun range. If he didn’t…

Cardin didn’t. The F-15 fell over on one wing and nearly stalled: actually a good maneuver that might have forced Pyrrha into an overshoot…had she not already guessed that would be his next move. She rolled to the opposite of Cardin’s turn, then reversed as she backed off the throttle, ending up squarely behind the F-15’s twin tails. Pyrrha knew Cardin would be desperately trying to open the range, but she was in his helmet, inside his mental loop: Cardin was terrified, on the edge of losing control, afraid of the Greek fury that had wiped out his flight in less than a minute and was now relentlessly hunting him. She waited. The F-15’s twin engines lit up with orange flame as Cardin engaged his afterburners.

“Got you,” she whispered. Her fingers switched to Sidewinders and then pressed the mike button. “Pyrrha, Fox Two on the F-15.”

“Roger that; Cardin’s a mort.” The range controller was shaking his head. “Pyrrha, splash four. Holy shit.” 

Jaune Arc waited patiently for Pyrrha to postflight her F-16. A very chagrined Cardinal Flight was just on approach. Once Pyrrha was finished and stuffing her helmet into its bag, he walked up to her. “Pyrrha.”

She smiled at him, enough that Jaune thought his heart hurt. “Jaune.”

“Why did you do that?” He pointed at Cardinal Flight, pitching out over the field to land.

She understood it well enough. “To show that, even outnumbered, you can still win.”

“No, Pyrrha. What was the _real_ reason? You requested that fight.”

She hesistated, tried to walk away, but Jaune grabbed her arm. She could not look at him. “I wanted to hurt Cardin for bullying you. And others. He needed to be taught a lesson.”

Jaune let go. “Pyrrha…you know I can’t thank you enough for the lessons you’ve been giving me. They’ve probably, literally saved my life. But you need to let me fight my own battles.”

“I just wanted to—“

“Pyrrha, stop!” Jaune exclaimed, his voice just below a shout. “For God’s sake! You’re a friend, a great friend, but you’re not my mother! I don’t need you to defend me!”

Now she did face him, eyes glistening. “We’re members of Juniper Flight. You mess with one of us—“

“Yes, I know!” Now Jaune _was_ shouting. “But humiliating a lot of guys just to prove a point isn’t acting as a team. It’s pursuing a vendetta. We didn’t do it together— _you_ did it on your own. Without even asking me, Ren or Nora.” Jaune could see he was not getting through to her—or it sure seemed he wasn’t. “I would think you of all people would know better about going it alone, Pyrrha.” He walked away, shaking his head.

Pyrrha watched him go, then began walking herself. She did not falter or fall to her knees, because that would be dramatic, and the Invincible Girl of Greece was not dramatic. 

But she did cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes. An upset Pyrrha is a deadly Pyrrha.
> 
> I used a few lines from Top Gun in this; I couldn't resist. The dogfight itself isn't particularly based on any historical flight that I know of, but during Vietnam, Navy F-8 pilots occasionally used their 20mm cannon to "herd" MiGs into Sidewinder shots.


	32. Secret Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pyrrha is feeling guilty for wiping out (in simulation) Cardinal Flight, but she'll find comfort from some odd people.
> 
> Meanwhile, Ruby finds Penny, who doesn't seem to remember her, and Weiss begins to research who's funding the White Fang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly longer chapter than last time, because I didn't want it to just be the Melancholy of Pyrrha Nikos. So you get a little of Pyrrha, a dash of Penny, a tot of Ruby, and a bit of Weiss.

_Building 71414 (Commander’s Office, JRB Beacon)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_24 April 2001_

_To: Ozpin CO JRB Beacon_

_From: Arashikaze_

_Subject: Torchwick and White Fang_

_You were right. Delta Force hit dry hole in Cleveland. Have not heard from Source CAMO as source is embedded with Torchwick and is probably on the move. Will be looking through Ohio DZ, and will inform once more info is available._

_Request for money to pay your source in Madison approved. Will transfer from Banana Company funds. Just like the old days, huh?_

_Arashikaze_

Ozpin leaned back in his chair. Was this a victory or not? The Torchwick Gang, as he figured they would, had disappeared. That was good, because an air pirate gang that wasn’t flying was no threat, and there were only so many places in the Ohio Dead Zone that Torchwick could hide. On the other hand, there was something to be said for the devil one knew. 

He deleted the e-mail and looked at the news for the day. The 1st Armored Division’s leading elements had detrained in Madison that morning, and were moving up to the Mississippi River. So far, there had been little protest, if any. The people of Wisconsin were always happy to see the government taking the GRIMM threat seriously. He mentally shrugged: if President Shawcross wanted to waste the taxpayer’s money, that was his business.

There was a knock on his door. The Navy would have provided Ozpin a yeoman to act as a secretary, but he disdained the practice: he could answer his own door and take care of his own mail, thank you very much. “Come in,” he called out. 

Pyrrha Nikos walked in, stopped the regulation distance from his desk, and came to attention. Ozpin stood. “Major Nikos! Good to see you. Have a seat.”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “I would rather stand, sir.”

“Have a seat, Major.” Pyrrha dropped into the seat opposite the desk; she knew an order when she heard one. “Coffee?”

“No, thank you, sir.”

Ozpin hobbled over to the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. “What can I do for you, Major? I saw your dogfight this morning. That was an incredible showing. Four aircraft in less than two minutes. I suspect the students will be beating a path to your door asking how you did it.”

Pyrrha did not look up. “Captain Ozpin, I must ask for a different assignment.”

He turned around. “A new flight?”

“I imagine that would not be possible. No, sir…a reassignment back to Greece.”

Ozpin went back to his desk. “I don’t think your government would be too pleased with that. You're their representative here at Vytal Flag.”

Pyrrha laughed, bitterly. “I am the Invincible Girl of Greece, Captain. I’m on cereal boxes. They’ve talked about putting up a statue of me on Crete. They can do nothing to me.”

“That you already haven’t done to yourself.” Ozpin sat on the edge of his desk. When she looked up at him, the hurt written on her face, he shook his head. “As I told Ruby Rose, Major Nikos, there is nothing you could have done that I haven’t done already, a hundred times more. I read the confidential report. I know what you did. And I know something else: no matter how many times you mock kill Cardin Winchester and his flight, you’re not going to exorcise those demons. You’re trying to save Jaune Arc because you couldn’t save your flight over Crete.”

She returned to staring at the floor. “You’re very perceptive, Captain.”

“It comes with the territory, Major.” Ozpin took a drink of coffee. “You command a squadron, a group or a base long enough, and you learn a lot about people. I also sense that your interest in Lieutenant Arc is not purely an attempt to make up for past failures.”

A minute shake of the head. “No,” she said softly.

Ozpin sighed. “The things we do for love,” he said, in a whisper so quiet Pyrrha wasn’t sure she heard him. “Request denied, Major Nikos,” Ozpin said in a normal tone of voice. When she once more looked up at him, he gestured to her with the cup. “Major—Pyrrha—you would regret the decision somewhere over the Atlantic, and for the rest of your life. You know that as well as I do. You can only run so far. And if you want to make up for what happened over Crete, the best thing you can do is remain here, and teach others what you have learned…so it doesn’t happen again. And let go of the past before it ruins you. What has happened has happened.”

She said nothing. Then, slowly, she nodded. “Yes, sir.” 

“Is there anything else, Major?”

“No, sir.” Pyrrha stood to attention.

“Very well. My door is always open.” She nodded, then turned to leave. When she reached the door, Ozpin stopped her. “Major?”

“Yes, sir?”

Ozpin hesitated for a moment. “Major Nikos, if you have feelings for Lieutenant Arc, do not let them interfere with your duty. But also do not deny them. That would be regrettable as well. Shutting away yourself only makes it worse.”

“Yes, sir.” 

Pyrrha closed the door behind her and left the building. She knew that Ozpin was right. She also knew that she should hold her head up, plaster an artificial smile on her face, and pretend like nothing was wrong. What she didn’t know how to do was to solve her problems. As a result, Pyrrha ended up staring at her boots as she made her way back in the general direction of the female officers’ barracks.

“Excuse me, Major.” Pyrrha looked up and found herself at eye level with another female officer, this one in the light blue service uniform of the USAF. To Pyrrha’s surprise, they were the same height: she didn’t meet many women who were six feet tall as she was. The brunette was saluting her. “You didn’t return my salute.”

Pyrrha blushed in embarrassment and quickly returned the salute. “I’m sorry, Major Fall. I was…distracted.”

“Oh, no worries.” The woman walked past a few paces, then stopped. “Major Nikos, can I speak frankly?”

_She probably just wants to discuss the dogfight today,_ Pyrrha thought to herself. _Another person that only cares about the Invincible Girl, not Pyrrha Nikos._ “Of course,” she answered, unable to keep the tiredness out of her voice.

“You look like something is really bothering you. It’s not my place to say that, perhaps—I think this is the first time we’ve met—but, well…are you all right?”

The Invincible Girl of Greece would have smiled, maybe laughed a little, and responded that of course she was all right. The vulnerable Pyrrha Nikos, who needed some human warmth from someone, anyone, right at that moment, merely shook her head. 

Captain Fall stepped closer. “Woman to woman, Major…is it guy trouble?” That did make Pyrrha laugh, though it wasn’t a particularly cheerful laugh. She nodded. The other woman laughed too. “Isn’t it always?” She thumbed back towards the officers’ club. “You want to commiserate? My guy dumped my ass too, back at Lakenheath. Another girl…well, you know how it is.”

“I don’t drink,” Pyrrha replied. She did not want another repeat of the night with Jaune.

“Who said anything about drinking? We’ll get some nachos and Cokes. You know how hard it is to get nachos in England?”

Pyrrha admitted to herself that it did sound pretty good, especially as her stomach rumbled. “Well…all right, Captain. That does sound lovely, at that.”

“Call me Cinder,” the brunette said with a friendly smile.

_Building 82814 (Base Library)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_24 April 2001_

“Still don’t get why we couldn’t have done this from our room,” Ruby grumped. Night had fallen at Beacon, and the night air had a bite to it. Winter wasn’t quite letting go of Wisconsin without a fight. 

“The Internet connection is better at the library,” Weiss insisted. “We have to use that lousy dial-up in our room. The library has wifi.”

“Dial-up isn’t _that_ bad,” Ruby said. “It was all we had in Patch.” She didn’t sound too convincing.

“Hmpf. We’ve had wifi for two years in Germany. Schnee GmbH marketed it in 1998.” Weiss couldn’t resist rubbing it in a little.

Ruby rolled her eyes. “’Oh, lookit me!’” she half-sang. “’My name is Weiss Schnee! I know facts! I’m rich as hell!’”

“Don’t be a pest. And watch for that patch of ice there.” The temperature was low enough that a few puddles of standing water had frozen.

“What ice?” Ruby found out a moment later when her shoes went out from under her. With a fighter pilot’s reflexes, she kept herself from going completely ass over teakettle, but she still skidded forward with a savage oath. What might’ve ended with Ruby Rose going 1V1 with a tree was stopped when her jacket was caught by a strong hand. Now somewhat upright, Ruby was able to get off the ice and back on solid ground. “Whew! Thanks, Weiss!” Ruby turned, but instead of Weiss’ white ponytail and pale complexion, she was confronted with reddish-orange hair and freckles.

“Salutations!” Penny Polendina said.

“Penny!” Ruby happily exclaimed. “Where have you been? We haven’t seen you since the Lake Michigan Massacre!”

Penny abruptly let go of Ruby as if the latter had turned into a snake. “Oh! Ah, I’m sorry! I thought you were someone else! You must be confused! I’ve never been to Lake Michigan!” She hiccuped, backed away, then practically jogged away, leaving a very confused Ruby and Weiss behind her. 

“That’s…weird,” Weiss said. “Why is she acting like she doesn’t even know you? I mean, there’s times _I_ want to act like I don’t even know you, but Penny…”

“Ha ha. Just for that, you can start without me.” Ruby chased off after Penny. “I’ll meet you later!”

“Ruby!” Weiss called out, but Ruby was already charging after the other pilot. It was her turn to roll her eyes. “ _Dummkopf._ ” Weiss adroitly avoided the ice and walked into the library. The computers were towards the back; the United States Air Force was yet to learn that computers concealed in cubicles to the rear were just asking for people to do all kinds of nefarious things on them. Weiss passed Sage Ayana looking at pictures of female beach volleyball stars in various states of undress, while next to him, Coco Adel snarled her way through _Duke Nukem 3D._ Weiss found a computer well away from them, sat down, and began typing away. Truth to be told, she was glad Ruby was gone; she was going to have to do some nefarious things herself.

Weiss took out a notebook and jotted down some notes. 

_ White Fang Funding _

_\--Publicly, main source of funding comes from charities worldwide, mainly contributed to by Faunus_

_\--Assumption: the people who contribute to White Fang charities think it’s going to Faunus relief, not terrorists_

_\--Blake says WF operates openly in Menagerie as a charity organization, but most Faunus know that Sienna Khan’s “radical offshoot” organization isn’t that at all_

_\--Many (though not all) Faunus contribute to the charities because they know that the WF are actually terrorists (since Blake’s parents left—most of the WF are terrorists)_

_\--Even with the amount the charities give, it can’t be enough to buy nearly 50 fighters, even black market_

_\--Assumption: Torchwick can easily get gas in the Dead Zones, but not missiles or ammunition_

_\--Assumption: he can get missiles and ammo off the black market, but that still costs money. Torchwick can supply himself, but not the WF and his own gang_

_\-- FOLLOW THE MONEY_

As Weiss got onto the internet, she started by looking at charitable donations to the White Fang. She wasn’t exactly sure where to look up that information, but after plugging it into Google (Weiss usually used Ask Jeeves, but her father had invested in the new American startup—and her father did make wise business decisions), she found that the White Fang had their own website. To her surprise, the organization’s webpage was well set up, with easy to use tabs. She clicked on _Donations_ , and in an added surprise, the White Fang’s public donation total for the year 2000 was right there, at the bottom of a page. _Seven million dollars? That’s not nearly enough. Blake said she saw twelve MiG-21s at Cleveland, which she estimated at three million worth of equipment. Ruby and Juniper Flights…well, Penny, mostly…shot down nearly twice that number over Lake Michigan. Even by Blake’s very conservative estimate, that’s nine million dollars worth of equipment that’s been shot down. And that doesn’t even count that weird forward-swept wing thing that nearly killed Neptune. The research and development alone would cost millions. Even assuming the White Fang is getting a cut from the DUST robberies, it’s still not enough. And the public charities have to be monitored. Maybe Blake’s father does it, and he wouldn’t tolerate this._ She stared at her reflection in the computer screen, and smiled wryly at herself. _Funny. A year ago I would’ve said that he was behind the whole thing, but not now._

Weiss sat back in her chair. There was a huge discrepancy here. The White Fang was getting a lot more money than what was officially listed. The question was, how to find out? The money could come from anywhere, and nowhere. Terrorist organizations had been around since the French Revolution; they always found funding. Then again, it was one thing to buy an old Russian assault rifle and an antitank missile launcher or two; it was quite different to supply an air squadron. Weiss knew that Vytal Flag probably cost the American and EU taxpayers somewhere in the range of a quarter of a billion dollars.

Part of Weiss just wanted to drop the whole idea, close down the browser, and go play some _Doom_ or something, like Coco. She was a fighter pilot, not an Interpol agent or spy. This was far outside her baliwick, and she vastly preferred hopping in _Myrtenaster_ and blowing away White Fang—that kill mark beneath her canopy was getting lonely, and having tasted blood, Weiss wanted more. Ozpin could damn well look up his own information. So could Ironwood and so could Winter. Her fingers hovered over the mouse; the cursor hovered over closing the window.

She didn’t click the mouse. Blake was right: no one else seemed to care. Even Winter seemed unconcerned. Ozpin at least recognized the threat, and however she might think her beloved elder sister could be pigheaded, her mother a drunk, and her father an idiot, Weiss was still a Schnee, and the White Fang were a direct threat to the Schnee. Besides, she was curious. 

Weiss glanced at her notes, and that was when she saw it, at the bottom of the White Fang’s webpage: _Our Sponsors._ On impulse, she clicked on the tab. 

Five companies were listed: _Latin American Faunus Resettlement Corporation, Purple Sage Corporation, Reedy Creek Faunus Youth Ranch Corporation, Menagerie Properties Corporation,_ and _Cerberus Properties Corporation._

“That’s odd,” Weiss said aloud. She put the names of each company into the search engine in turn. Latin American Faunus Resettlement was exactly that: a company that specialized in moving Faunus from Menagerie to the warmer climates of Central and South America. Reedy Creek was a ranch in Canada that took care of troubled Faunus teenagers. Menagerie Properties was a real estate company that resettled Faunus refugees in Menagerie. Of Purple Sage and Cerberus, Weiss could find nothing, other than the three-headed hound that guarded the Greek underworld; the best she could do with Purple Sage was _Riders of the Purple Sage,_ a century-old Zane Grey western. Weiss knew that one because it was her father’s favorite book. Like many Germans, Joachim Schnee had a fascination with the American Old West, and especially Western novels. 

Weiss once more found herself at an impasse. The first three corporations were all legitimate and the last two were unknowns. There was nothing in the least nefarious about them, really. In its “open” form, the White Fang was a Faunus civil rights group, so it made perfect sense that resettlement, refugee and youth help groups would sponsor them. What didn’t make sense was any of those companies having the millions of dollars to support the White Fang. Even the most successful youth ranch in the world didn’t have millions of dollars of assets. 

_All right,_ Weiss told herself, _focus. Remember your notes: follow the money. Every one of those corporations have to have stockholders._ _And if they’re publicly traded, or they’re charity organizations, their taxes and donors are generally public knowledge._ _Time to start using that business degree, Weiss. And all that knowledge that your father stuffed in your ears to prepare you to run the Schnee company._

It took an hour. Ruby did not return, but Weiss did not notice. She didn’t notice when Coco finally threw the mouse at the screen in frustration, or when Sage got up and left. She didn’t even notice when Velvet came in, peered over her shoulder in curiosity at the heir to the Schnee fortune looking up Faunus real estate sales, then checked her e-mail in the cubicle next to Weiss and left. With the laser focus that had gotten Weiss top marks in everything she had ever done, she researched each company, even the unknowns, and found the principle shareholder in all five of the White Fang’s donors. 

The library lights blinked to let the patrons know they had ten minutes before closing, but that wasn’t the reason Weiss Schnee sat upright in her chair, utter horror on her face.

“Oh my God,” Weiss said. “Oh my God.” She looked down at her notes to confirm it, but there it was, in black pen against yellow paper. 

The principal shareholder in all of them was Schnee GmbH. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh, on so many levels. 
> 
> Note the references to dial-up internet and Google being new. This story *does* take place in 2001, after all.


	33. I Think I'm a Clone Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruby catches up with Penny, and learns the truth about her friend. Penny is not a real girl. But she's not a robot either. 
> 
> Just what is she?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter this time as we begin the ramp up to the dance and all hell breaking loose (again). Rather appropriate that this chapter features the background of this world's Penny Polendina.

_Base Quad_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_24 April 2001_

Ruby spotted Penny running across the Quad, and smiled to herself. At Patch High School, Ruby had lettered in track: if one Lieutenant Polendina thought she was going to outrun one Lieutenant Rose, she had another thing coming. Even given Penny’s head start, Ruby quickly caught up to her. Penny dashed across the main street of the base, Arryn Avenue, but could not shake her pursuer. Abruptly, Penny stopped, which cause Ruby to do the same.

“Watch out!” Penny took three steps forward, grabbed Ruby with one hand, and effortlessly tossed her out of the way, a second before a car would have run her over. It skidded to a halt with a squeal of tires, and Scarlet David leaned out of the driver’s window. “Oh shit!” he yelled. “You guys okay? I didn’t even see you!”

Ruby had landed hard on her rear end, but other than bruises, the only thing that was hurt was her pride. “I’m okay!” she yelled back. “Penny?”

“I’m fine, thank you!” Penny hiccuped as she said it.

Scarlet blew out his breath in relief. “Whew! Don’t run out in the street like that! _Ben-Zonna!”_ He drove away, albeit at a much slower speed.

Penny limped over to Ruby. “Are you all right?”

“I’m okay,” Ruby repeated. She got to her feet. “How did you do that?” Ruby was proud that she didn’t weigh that much, but she wasn’t _that_ skinny. 

“Not here,” Penny whispered, although there wasn’t anyone within hearing distance, and pulled Ruby into a small park off the street. There were some shade trees there, and Penny, who was still limping, sat down heavily on a bench. Ruby sat down next to her. “So you _do_ remember me,” she said.

Penny winced as she pulled off her shoe. “Of course. You’re my friend.” She smiled at Ruby. “I’m sorry I acted like I didn’t know you back there with Miss Schnee. I’m really not supposed to get…attached to people. It’s nothing personal. It’s just that my father worries about me.”

“Heh. I know _that_ feeling.” Ruby looked down as Penny pulled off her sock. She noticed tire tracks across the shoe. “Holy shit, Penny! He ran over your foot!”

“It’s fine.” Penny hiccuped. “All right, it’s not _quite_ fine, but nothing’s broken.” She held up a pale foot for inspection. There was a nasty bruise spreading across it, but Penny wiggled her toes. “I’ll be okay in a day or two.”

“You sure you don’t want me to take you over to the hospital?”

“For this?” Penny scoffed. “It’s fine, Ruby, really.”

Ruby stood. “Okay, out with it.”

“Out with what?”

“First of all, you show up when we’re engaged with the White Fang’s air force—which they’re not supposed to have, by the way—and then you blow them all away with a freaking B-1. Triple ace in a day! I get that your B-1 has been modded, but damn, girl!”

“Well…” Penny looked sheepish. “I wasn’t really supposed to do that…”

“Before that you acted weird with me and Weiss, and just now you pretend you don’t know either one of us!” Ruby exclaimed. “And now you pick me up with one hand like Darth friggin’ Vader—“

“Who?”

“—and throw me around like I’m a sack of potatoes! Then Scarlet runs over your foot and it’s just _bruised?_ It should be broken!” Ruby ran out of breath. “Who the hell are you?”

Ruby half-expected Penny to run off again. Instead, Penny put her shoe and sock back on, and stared at the ground. “I’m…not a real girl.” Her voice was so quiet Ruby wasn’t sure what she had heard. 

“What?”

“I’m not a real girl. I mean, I’m a girl, but I’m not real. I’m real in the sense that I am here and taking up space, but I’m not…” Penny sighed in frustration. “I’m not explaining this very well…”

“Yeah, no shit.” Ruby’s eyes widened. “Wait. You’re a goddamn _robot?”_

“What? No!” Penny laughed. “That’s just preposterous, Ruby. Our technology isn’t that good. At least, not yet.” She wagged a finger at her. “And you shouldn’t use God’s name in vain, Ruby. My father has warned me about that.”

Ruby sat down next to Penny. “I’m so confused.”

“Understandable. Let me try again.” Penny took a breath. “Most girls are born. You know, the male impregnates the female with his—“

“I’m familiar with the concept,” Ruby told her, then blushed. “I mean, not _familiar_ familiar, but, well…”

“I understand. I too am still a virgin.” Before Ruby could scream in embarrassment, Penny continued. “I was made in a test tube, with donated reproductive material. Then I was…well…grown. And in the process, genetic manipulation was done to make me stronger and faster than the average human. My bones are reinforced—which is why my foot isn’t broken—and my muscles are also enhanced. This allows me to better withstand Gs. I don’t even need to wear a G-suit. My lungs are larger than yours so that I don’t need as much oxygen. And my eyes have been modified for better visual acuity with cornea transplants.”

Ruby’s head spun. She was quite sure she didn’t have anywhere near the security clearance for this. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“I’m not, Ruby.” Penny could not meet her eyes. “Like I said. I’m not a real girl.”

Ruby said nothing for a moment, then reached out and poked Penny in the shoulder. She did it twice before Penny pulled away. “Did that hurt?” Ruby asked.

“No, but it’s distinctly uncomfortable.”

“I know you bleed. Do you put on your flight suit one leg at a time?”

“Of course. It would be extraordinarily difficult otherwise.”

“Then according to what my dad used to say, you’re human just like the rest of us. Well, except the Faunus, but I guess they’re kinda human too.” At Penny’s perplexed expression, Ruby added, “Dad says that if you bleed red and put your pants on one leg at a time, then you must be a human being.”

Penny’s confusion melted into the biggest, most happy smile Ruby had ever seen. She threw her arms around Ruby. “Oh, Ruby! You’re the best friend I’ve ever had!”

Ruby felt her bones creaking and gasped for air. “Yep…that’s…me…” Penny let her go. Ruby massaged her shoulders. “I get why you don’t want people to know about you.” Ruby half-wished _she_ didn’t know about Penny. “But why are they, whoever they are, so protective? Seems to me you can handle yourself.” She thought about Penny’s strength, and imagined that the girl could probably bench press a truck.

“My father doesn’t want to see me hurt.” Ruby nodded at that; it was something she could understand. Too often, Ruby had seen the expression on Taiyang Xiao Long’s face when he saw his girls in their flight suits. “But it will be my job to protect the world some day. That’s why I’m here at Beacon, at Vytal Flag, actually. My father wants me to learn about the world and test myself and my B-1. Originally I was supposed to have a brand new aircraft, built just for me, but then the prototype got stolen and I got the B-1 instead. Not that I mind. It's even more advanced than me!” Penny shrugged. “He didn’t anticipate I’d be testing like I did over Lake Michigan, but it certainly proved I’m combat ready.”

“Who’s your father?”

Penny shook her head. “I can’t tell you that, Ruby.” Ruby wasn’t sure why—Penny had told her everything else—but before she could press Penny for details, they heard voices approaching. “Uh oh. I think those are my minders. You’d better hide.”

Ruby wanted to protest, but thought better of it. If anyone like Ozpin or Ironwood found out that Ruby knew this level of a secret, her next duty assignment might be the military prison at Fort Leavenworth. “Will you be okay?”

“I think so. You won’t tell anyone about me, will you?”

Ruby winked. “Of course not. You’re my friend.” She quickly jumped behind some nearby bushes. Through the hedge, she spotted two military policemen, flanking an African-American woman in Air Force blues. All three wore the dark blue beret of USAF Security Forces. “There you are,” the woman said, with just the hint of a Cajun accent. 

“Salutations, Ciel.”

“Where have you been? And where’s the girl that was chasing you?”

“Just out for a walk. But I’ve been by myself the whole time.” Penny hiccuped loudly. She got to her feet, but winced with pain.

“Are you all right?” Ciel asked.

“Just a bad bruise. Someone ran over my foot.”

Ciel shook her head. “Penny, General Ironwood’s going to very upset about this.”

“It’s my own fault.” Another hiccup. 

Ciel sighed and smiled. “It’s all right. Let’s go get you looked at. You can walk around, Penny, but be careful who you talk to, okay?”

“No problem, Ciel. I’m very careful who I talk to.” As they walked off, Penny quickly threw a wink back in Ruby’s direction. 

_Building 82814 (Base Library)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_24 April 2001_

Weiss wandered out of the library in a daze. She had to consciously remember to grab her notes and stuff them into a folder before she left. She stepped squarely on the ice, but did not even wobble. _This can’t be right,_ she told herself. _My family can’t be funding the White Fang. That doesn’t even make any damn sense! Why would my father be sending money to dummy companies that funnel the money straight to the people that want to kill us? No, I missed something, somewhere._

Weiss abruptly turned and headed for the command post. _Winter. Winter will know. She always knows what to do._ Then Weiss remembered that, this late, Winter was almost certainly either in bed or heading towards bed. The elder Schnee was in the VOQ, so Weiss changed direction. She also nearly ran down Jaune Arc.

“Whoa!” Jaune flailed for something to grab, almost grabbed Weiss’ blouse—which would have ended disastrously for all involved—and fell into the grass instead. She took another few steps, then turned and helped him up. “Sorry, Jaune. Are you all right?”

He rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah, I’m okay, Weiss.” Satisfied that Jaune was intact, Weiss turned and began striding towards the VOQ again. Jaune, to her surprise, caught up with her. “Weiss!”

“What?” Jaune half-expected her to snap at him, or tell him to go away. Instead, her voice merely sounded distracted, which she was…but Jaune had always been a little slow on the uptake when it came to women, in spite of growing up with his sisters.

“Um…Weiss?” Jaune stumbled over both his words and his feet.

“Yes, Jaune?” Just the slightest hint of irritation.

“Want to go to the dance with me?”

“There’s a dance?” Weiss dimly remembered that Goodwitch had announced the annual Joint Base Beacon Spring Formal. It was as much a part of Vytal Flag as the flying and classroom learning.

“Yeah, would you—“

“Sure,” Weiss said, and picked up the pace. Jaune was left behind, mainly because he stopped in shock. He hadn’t expected her to agree so quickly. He hadn’t expected her to agree at all. It slowly sank in that he, Lieutenant Jaune Arc, would be taking Oberleutnant Weiss Schnee, the Ice Queen of Beacon, to a formal dance. An actual date. With a girl that wasn’t his sister taking pity on him. A girl that was attractive, warm (sort of), and could fly as good or better than anyone in the sky. The heir to a fortune. 

Jaune wondered why it didn’t seem like much of a victory. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of White Knight there, along with some Nuts and Dolts. Penny as a clone makes a lot more sense in 2001 than as an android. 
> 
> Since Scarlet is Israeli in this story, "Ben-Zonna" roughly translates to "son of a bitch" in Hebrew.


	34. Bizarre Love Triangle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pyrrha's unsure of her feelings towards Jaune, but Nora watches out for her friend. Pyrrha makes up her mind: she'll ask Jaune to the dance. There's just one problem with that.
> 
> Speaking of Weiss, she confronts Winter about what she's learned about the White Fang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a tangled web we weave. For those of you just here for the missile shots and flying, this chapter may be a little boring, but RWBY itself is more than just beating up Grimm. And for those who wanted more Nora...here you go. Ren shows up in the next chapter. So does Renora!
> 
> The idea of Cinder and Pyrrha commiserating over guy problems amuses me for some reason. Of course, if Cinder Fall is indeed based on Cinderella, then she really does have some guy problems..

_Building 91213 (Female Officers’ Quarters)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_24 April 2001_

Nora Valkyrie was engaging in her second favorite pastime, reading a comic book—her favorite pastime was admiring Lie Ren’s physique—when Pyrrha walked in. “Hey, Pyrrha.” 

“Hello, Nora.” Pyrrha walked over to her bed and threw herself on it. She instantly regretted it as her stomach reminded her of the plate of nachos she had shared with Cinder Fall. She sat up on her pillow. 

Nora put down the comic book. “You okay?”

Pyrrha did not answer. Cinder had done her best to help—she had proven a good listener. Pyrrha had not told her everything that had happened over Crete, but she said enough. The brunette had told her that killing air pirates was nothing to be ashamed about, and that casualties happened in war, but Pyrrha had heard those words before, even spoken them herself. 

As far as Jaune went, Cinder had poured out _her_ experiences with men. She regarded them as pigs, interested in little more than getting her clothes off when off-duty, and as an interloper on duty. Despite nearly 35 years of female fighter pilots, born in the desperation of the Third World War, there were still a few male fighter pilots who would prefer that, now that the emergency was over, the ladies should get themselves back on their pedestals and back in the kitchen.

Pyrrha wasn’t sure if she agreed with Cinder: certainly, she was aware that she was a rather attractive woman and she couldn’t count all the times she had felt herself being mentally stripped. There were a lot of people who wanted to see the Invincible Girl of Greece the _Naked_ Invincible Girl of Greece. However, her male squadronmates in the HAF were not like that, and aside from Cardin Winchester’s crude remarks, she had run into nothing like that at Beacon. Ren was a perfect gentleman, and so was Jaune. The latter could have easily taken advantage of her in her drunkenness, but Jaune had been kind, discreet, and gentle. 

“Pyrrha? Nora to Pyrrha, are you receiving on this channel?”

Pyrrha abruptly realized that she had been staring into space for a few minutes. “I’m sorry, Nora. Just distracted.”

Nora got up and walked over, plunking herself down on Pyrrha’s bed. “Yeah, I bet. Jaune was in here looking for you earlier. He said he wanted to apologize.”

“He has nothing to apologize for, Nora. He’s right.” Pyrrha sighed. “I let my own anger override my good sense. I wanted to get revenge on Cardinal Flight for no other reason than Cardin bullies Jaune.”

“What’s wrong with that? Bastard deserved it.”

“No, Nora,” Pyrrha replied, shaking her head. “I did that before, in Greece, and it…well, it didn’t end well. I should’ve at least talked to the rest of the flight about it. Jaune’s upset because he wants to fight his own fights, not let his girlfr—his friend fight them for him.” One look at Nora and Pyrrha knew that she hadn’t covered herself in time, and the Greek girl turned beet red.

“Girlfriend? You and Jaune?” Nora leered. She stretched out on the bed, chin in her hands. “Tell me more, Pyrrha!”

Pyrrha’s blush deepened, if that was possible. “We’re—we’re not.”

“Why not?” Pyrrha opened her mouth, couldn’t think of anything to say, then closed it again. “C’mon, Pyr. He likes you.”

Pyrrha remembered what Cinder had said. “I’m sure he does.” She regretted it instantly. It made her sound bitter and spiteful.

Nora only giggled. “Sure, he thinks you’re sexy. Ren probably thinks you’re sexy. _I_ think you’re sexy, and I don’t go for girls. But Jaune, I think, likes you for who you are. He’s seen you at your worst, right?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Nora lightly slapped Pyrrha’s knee. “The night of the party? You came back here and got wrecked on your own. Jaune put you to bed. I know it wasn’t me, because I was passed out on the bar, and I know it wasn’t Ren, because I accidentally punched him. Besides, I found two empty bottles of ouzo in the trash, and the place reeked of it. And _somebody_ puked in the bathroom, and it wasn’t Jaune.”

“Oh, God.” Pyrrha buried her face in her hands. Nora knew. And if Nora knew, Ren knew. 

“Stop it, Pyr. You think you’re the first girl to get fucked up? Hey, at least you didn’t take off all your clothes. There ain’t a fighter pilot on this base who hasn’t seen everything I’ve got, including Cardin Winchester, and yes, that keeps me awake some nights.” Nora hopped off the bed. “But you know, Ren saw all that and he’s still my boyfriend. Jaune’s seen you knee-walking drunk and he still likes you. And he still likes you now.”

“He’s upset with me.”

“Then go talk to him and apologize. I bet Jaune’s waiting for you on the flightline right now. Heck, I bet he’ll apologize too. It’s about time for your training session.”

“Damn,” Pyrrha breathed. She’d forgotten about that. She hesitated a moment, then got up and pulled her flight suit out of the closet. “You’re right, Nora. At the very least, I should continue working with him.” She remembered Ozpin’s words. Helping Jaune learn how to stay alive might not bring back her flight, but she would be truly damned if she’d sit by and let Crete happen again because she didn't help someone. 

“That’s the spirit.” Nora got Pyrrha’s boots out for her.

“How do you and Ren handle it? A relationship, I mean.”

It was Nora’s turn to blush. “Well…we’re not… _together-_ together, if you know what I mean.” When Pyrrha clearly did not know what she meant, Nora sighed. Her friend might be one of the finest fighter pilots on the planet, but sometimes Major Nikos could be a bit dense. “We’re not sleeping together.”

“Oh.” 

“Yeah, most people figure that we’re banging, but it’s not like that. I’ve known Ren for a long time, and I’m…we’re not quite ready for that. Though it’ll happen eventually.” Nora smiled. “I’m _really_ sure of that. But there’s time to take things slow.” That crafty look came back in the American girl’s eyes. “You know…there’s a formal dance coming up in a week. You should ask Jaune. Assuming he doesn’t ask you first.”

“Oh…oh, no,” Pyrrha laughed nervously. “I’m a terrible dancer.”

“So what?”

“He’s probably asked someone else.” Under Nora’s look, Pyrrha wilted. “All right, _maybe_ he hasn’t. But still…”

“But nothing.” Nora zipped up the front of Pyrrha’s flight suit, nearly catching the other girl’s bosom in it. “If he doesn’t ask you out, Pyrrha, you’d better ask him, or so help me, you’ll be sleeping outside tonight!”

_Building 111415 (Visiting Officer’s Quarters)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_24 April 2001_

Winter Schnee winced as someone knocked on her door—or, rather, tried to bash it down. She raised her voice. “I’m coming!” Then she looked disgustedly at the phone. “Oh, shut up. I’ll see you in a week. Until then, spare me your crude humor.” She hung up, got up off the bed, and walked to the door, which shook in its frame. Winter flung it open. To her surprise, it was her sister. “What is it?”

“We need to talk.”

Winter yawned. “I was just about to go to bed. Can it wait until the—“ Winter gasped as Weiss shoved her aside. “By all means, come in.” She shut the door. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

“This.” Weiss thrust a folder into her hands. “Read it.”

“Why should I—“

“ _Read it!”_ Weiss shouted. Winter, taken aback by her sister’s sudden rage, walked over to the bed and sat down. Though she was alone in the room, there were two beds, so Weiss sat on the other one while Winter opened the folder and read.

Weiss expected a lot of things from her sister. Outright denial was one—something along the lines of a glacial stare and a snarl that the Schnee company would never do something like fund the White Fang. Calm acceptance was another—Winter would say that of course she was aware of it, that their father had been doing it for some time, and Weiss needed to shut up and accept it.

What she was not expecting was Winter’s frown fading to genuine shock, the pale blue eyes widening to almost comical proportions. She looked up at Weiss. “This cannot be true. This is not correct.” She shuffled through the notes. “This is a lie.”

“Would I lie, Winter? About something like this?” Weiss shook her head. “Believe me, this is the last thing I wanted to learn.”

“This is not correct,” Winter repeated.

“Do _you_ think I’m lying, Winter? Really?”

Winter set aside the folder. Still open, some of the notes drifted out and fell to the floor. Winter stared at Weiss, but her eyes were focused beyond her sister. “This is not correct—“

“Winter, stop it!” Weiss exclaimed. “ _Mein Gott,_ don’t you think I wanted to be wrong? I have a degree in business management, Winter—one which Father insisted I get—and I used it! Face the truth—Schnee GmbH is funneling money to the White Fang! I know it! I know it _all!”_ In frustration, Weiss kicked at the notes on the floor. “The only thing I don’t know is why!”

Winter stood, looming over her younger sister. Even dressed in pajamas with her hair down, she was still intimidating. Her hands came up, almost as if she wanted to choke her sister. Then they slowly came down, and to Weiss’ abject surprise, she saw tears in Winter’s eyes. “I don’t know either, Weiss. Why…why would Father do it?” She sank back onto the bed.

“There’s no money involved,” Weiss said after a period of silence. “Our family isn’t making any money off of this—if anything, we’re losing money.” She paused. “So you do believe me.”

“Weiss, you are many things. A liar is not one of them.” Winter rubbed at her eyes, and her expression turned angry, as if upset at showing weakness in front of her sister. “Perhaps it isn’t Father. There are others in Schnee GmbH that could do this.” Her voice lacked conviction. 

“Who would know?” 

Winter thought a moment. “I’m not sure. Whitley’s too young, and Mother…” She chuckled ruefully. “Well, Mother is Mother. Perhaps Klein?”

Weiss nodded. Klein Sieben was the Schnee family’s chief butler. “There’s little that goes on in our family that Klein doesn’t know about.” She reached across and took her sister’s hands. “Winter, what if we went to Father directly.”

“No. That would be foolish. Not only would he deny it, but he would probably have both of us on a plane home, for a psychiatric evaluation. Especially you.” Both sisters unconsciously suppressed a shudder. Weiss and Winter had worked most of their lives to escape the Schnee mansion; the last thing either wanted was to be forced to return. 

Winter reached down, gathered up the notes, and carefully placed them back into the folder. “I noticed you have two copies of everything in here. One for me, and one for you?” Weiss nodded. “Good. Very smart. You are taking no chances that either of us would be compromised.”

“That…wasn’t the entire reason.” Weiss looked away from her sister.

“You didn’t trust me not to destroy a single copy of the notes and forget this ever happened.” Winter took out her copies and handed the folder to Weiss. “Smart. I would have done the same thing.”

“We have to trust each other. I’m sorry for thinking that about you.”

Winter took the notes, crossed over to the safe built into the small desk in a corner of the room, and put them in. “Don’t apologize for being cautious, Weiss. If our positions were reversed…I don’t know if I would have trusted me, either.” She closed and locked the safe. “Hide those.”

“I have to tell the rest of my flight, Winter.”

Winter hesitated. “Do you trust them?”

“Yes.” The reply was instant and firm.

“Then I must trust them as well.”

Weiss stood up. “Winter, I came straight to you. But I don’t think I can take this any further. I’ve exhausted what skills I do have.”

“And you must concentrate on your duties to Ruby Flight and the Luftwaffe.” Winter gave her a single nod. “I will inquire into this, Weiss. I will let you know as soon as I know something. As I trust you…you must trust me.”

“Always and forever.” Weiss hugged her sister, who returned it. “You’ve always been there, Winter. Always. I love you.” She felt tears in her own eyes, and brushed them away with a smile as she looked up at her sister. “I don’t say that enough.”

“I love you too, Weiss.” She returned the hug, and then gently pushed her sister away. “You should probably get some sleep.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“Thank _you,_ Weiss.” Winter watched her sister leave, then walked over to her bed. She sat down heavily, glanced at the phone, then laid down. “Oh God, Father,” she said, fighting back tears, “what have you done?”

In the VOQ hallway, Weiss walked towards the entrance when she saw another pilot walking towards her. It took a moment to place him, but finally Weiss remembered that this was Mercury Black, Creamer Flight’s F-16 pilot. “Good evening,” she said.

“Hey.” He stood aside to let her pass. “Ah, Oberleutnant?”

Weiss turned. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

Mercury stared directly at her, with an intensity that took Weiss aback. “There’s a dance coming up next week. Would you like to go?”

There it was, direct and without hesitation. Weiss appraised the lieutenant. He was tall, a little skinny, but with a handsome face under the prematurely graying hair. Under the issue shirt, she could see the outline of muscles. Though Weiss would not even admit it to her sister, not even under torture, she did like guys who worked out. “Tell me, Lieutenant,” she said coolly, “are you asking me as Weiss or as Oberleutnant Schnee?” Through much experience, Weiss could spot a gold digger a mile away. She did not get that impression from Mercury, but it was worth asking the question. And it got her mind off her family.

“I’m asking you because you’re quite beautiful.” His smile was rakish. Another weakness, Weiss admitted to herself—she _did_ like a bad boy, every now and then. 

“Well, Lieutenant. This is rather sudden, don’t you think? And forward?” She held up a hand as he began to speak. This game’s rules she understood. “Actually, I appreciate it. I respect a man who knows what he wants and is not afraid to say it. Let me think about it.”

Mercury gave her a half-bow. “I await your invitation…Weiss.” Weiss turned and continued to walk away, but could not help but put just the slightest sashay in her walk. She knew Mercury was staring at her rear end. 

She had forgotten completely about Jaune.

_Squadron Dispersal A_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_24 April 2001_

When Pyrrha arrived at Jaune’s Mirage, she was surprised to see him in his regular uniform, not his flight suit. “Jaune? Aren’t we going up tonight?” Sudden fear welled up inside her: Jaune did not want to train with her any longer.

“Pyrrha…” Jaune made sure they were alone. He had already sent his ground crew back to the barracks for the night, but one could never be sure there wasn’t someone else lurking around. “I’m sorry about what I said today.”

“Oh.” Pyrrha smiled, remembering what Nora had said. “That’s all right.”

“It’s not. I still think you shouldn’t act alone, but I could’ve handled it better. I’m the flight commander, after all. Praise in public, punish in private—my uncle told me that once.” Jaune was turning red. “You’re a great person, Pyrrha. But you’re part of a team, okay? We need to remember that. All for one and one for all…that sort of thing.”

“Of course. You’re right. And Jaune? I will not do those things again.” Pyrrha cradled her helmet bag as if it were a stuffed animal, for comfort. “I spoke with Captain Ozpin today. He pointed out some things to me that…honestly…I had not thought of. I have been fighting ghosts. I can’t bring back my flight. I can’t run away from those memories or those friends. But I can make new ones, with my new friends.” She remembered the American saying. “Are we good?”

Jaune nodded vigorously. He stepped forward, arms raised, but abruptly stopped. There were other people around in the other hardstands, including Pyrrha’s ground crew. Pyrrha was his friend, but she was also a superior officer. He could not really hug her. He quickly put his hands behind his back. “Yeah, we’re good. Definitely. Let’s just put it behind us.”

“Did you still want to fly tonight?” Pyrrha asked.

“If it’s okay with you…no. It’s been a long day. Let’s just get some rest and go tomorrow night, okay?”

“Sure.” Truth to be told, Pyrrha admitted, she was pretty tired at that. She remembered something else Nora had said, and it seemed as good of a time as any. She didn’t feel like waiting any longer. “Jaune…would you like to accompany me to the formal dance next week?”

Jaune’s face fell. He turned pale. Pyrrha put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?” Men had many reactions to Pyrrha Nikos, but terror was not one of them—at least, not on the ground. 

“I asked Weiss to the dance, and well…” He put a hand over his eyes. “She actually accepted. I can’t believe it myself, but she did.”

Pyrrha felt two emotions. The first was a desire to burst into tears, because she had been sure Jaune would accept. She liked him, and she knew he liked her. The second was to murder Weiss Schnee, or at least render her unconscious a few times. 

She fought those down. She was not about to cry like some teenager, and if Weiss accepted, then good for her. Jaune Arc was a good man, and fairly handsome. There was no reason to feel jealous. “That’s wonderful, Jaune,” she told him.

“No, it’s not.”

“Why?”

“Because that means I have to say no to you. If I’d known you were interested, I would never have asked her.”

_That’s me,_ Pyrrha thought bitterly. _Always a day late and a drachma short._ “Jaune, it’s all right. Really.” Despite the bitterness, Pyrrha meant it. Weiss was quite a catch, and she found herself proud that her protégé had worked up the courage to ask the German girl out. The Jaune Arc of a few weeks ago would have made a fool of himself, done something stupid like sing to her, and Weiss would have slammed a door in his face. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaune apologized.

“Stop, Jaune. As I said, it’s quite all right.”

“If you say so.” Jaune felt lower than a snake’s underside. “Well, I guess…I guess you’ve got hundreds of guys clamoring over each other just to ask you out.”

_Oh sure,_ Pyrrha mused darkly, _all of them wanting the Invincible Girl, so they can brag about having fucked her._ She wondered if Cinder Fall had a point after all. “You’d be surprised.”

Jaune laughed, which surprised her. “Pyrrha, now _you_ stop. If you don’t have a date to the dance, I’ll wear a dress. I think Blake is about my size.”

The image of Jaune in a dress made Pyrrha giggle, especially in the formal Marine dress skirt. “I’ll hold you to it.”

“I expect you to! An Arc never goes back on his word.” He shivered. “Let’s get back inside. It’s getting cold and late.”

“Actually, I think I will go for a flight tonight. Just myself.” At Jaune’s look of concern, she smiled. “I’m okay, Jaune. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I better.” He moved past her, stopped, put a hand on her shoulder, and left. Pyrrha watched him go, and put a hand where his hand had been. Even through the glove, it was warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Pyrrha. I seem to write those two words a lot.


	35. Obsession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cinder Fall meets with the other members of Creamer Flight: Emerald Sustrai, Mercury Black, and Ruth Lionheart. One of them is not part of a conspiracy...
> 
> Meanwhile, Blake's obsession with the White Fang is starting to concern Ruby Flight, but Blake doesn't really care.

_Building 111415 (Visiting Officer’s Quarters)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_25 April 2001_

There was a knock at the door of Cinder Fall’s room. She put down the book she was reading, went down the short hall to the door, and let in Emerald Sustrai and Mercury Black. “Good morning.” Despite it being a Wednesday, Ozpin had taken mercy on his pilots and given them the day off after a marathon of 12-hour days. As Emerald and Mercury took a seat on the second bed, Cinder switched on the radio, though she kept the volume low. There was no reason to think that the room was bugged, but she knew Ozpin’s background as an intelligence agent, and the radio noise would help drown out their voices.

Cinder took a moment to regard her associates. Mercury Black wore the light blues and the silver bars of a USAF 1st Lieutenant, while Emerald’s uniform was the same shade, but she carried the three stars of a Spanish Air Force Captain. Both were false colors: though Mercury was indeed an American and Emerald Spanish, neither had ever flown for the services they supposedly represented. Cinder was not worried: Leonardo Lionheart had made sure their bona fides were secure. An inquiry to Lakenheath, Aviano or Torrejon would find that Captain Fall, Lieutenant Black, and Captain Sustrai had been assigned there for the past four years, along with letters of commendation and rent stubs. A more closer investigation would find anomalies—such as the fact that no one at those bases actually knew any of those names—but Cinder was confident that the bureaucracy moved slow, and what they were actually here for would be over before anyone became suspicious. 

The only one missing was Ruth Lionheart, but there were other plans for her. 

“So. Report,” Cinder told them, sitting on her bed.

“Got good news on my front,” Mercury said with a smirk. “Purely coincidental, too. I was heading back to my room last night when I ran into Weiss Schnee, right here in the VOQ. I asked her out, and while she didn’t accept, she didn’t say no. If I read her looks right, she’s interested.”

Emerald rolled her eyes. “She’s way out of your league.”

“Doesn’t matter. We just need her as an alibi. I’m curious as to what she was doing here in the VOQ, though.”

“Winter Schnee is staying three doors down from here. Probably just a visit to her sister.” Cinder nodded at Emerald. “What did you find out?”

“The computer center here on base has one guard—an air policeman, and they’re on a roving patrol. They’re bored and complacent. I was able to get all the way to the server room before they even noticed I was there, and they totally bought my story that I was trying to find the bathroom.” Emerald laughed. She had learned long ago that people would buy the simplest stories the easiest, because they wanted to believe it. The amateur thief was sure that they would be found out; the master knew that they never would be. 

“Good.” 

“What did you find out?” Mercury asked. “I saw you with Pyrrha Nikos in the Officers’ Club yesterday. The Invincible Girl of Greece—hell, even I’ve heard of her.”

“She’s good,” Cinder replied, “but I wouldn’t say invincible.”

“Oh?”

Cinder hesitated a second before continuing. Communication was indeed key, but Mercury was her subordinate, not her confidant. She had no faith in him: Mercury was a shotgun to be pointed in the right direction of a target. As such, he was useful and that was all. “I did some research on Major Nikos before we came here. Yes, it’s true that she wiped out an air pirate band over Greece, but it’s not general knowledge that she killed the survivors in their parachutes.”

Emerald shrugged. “So? They deserved it. Good for her.”

“Perhaps, but Miss Nikos suffers from deep guilt over the subject. She didn't come out and say she'd killed them in their 'chutes, but I deduced it. Her squadron was wiped out before she got there. Not her fault, from what I understand, but she thinks it is. We can use that.”

“You should be able to take her in the air, if it comes to that,” Emerald said.

Cinder smiled at the compliment. Emerald, in her own way, loved Cinder Fall like a sister, and had since Cinder had rescued her from being captured by the Spanish police. Everyone had a weakness, and Cinder was quite good at exploiting those weaknesses. It was why she was at Beacon. “It’s not about overpowering the enemy in the air, Emerald. It’s about taking away what power they have before you even leave the runway. Know the enemy and know yourself, and you will be the victor of a thousand battles,” she quoted. “And we will be victorious, in time.”

“I hate waiting,” Mercury groused.

“Don’t worry, Mercury. We have a fun week ahead of us.” There was another knock at the door. “All of us.” 

As Cinder walked to the door, Mercury could not hide the disdain on his face. “God, I hate that little peppy bitch.”

Emerald kicked back on the bed. “Oh, she’s not so bad. She means well.”

“Yeah. That’s the problem.”

Cinder opened the door and looked down at Ruth Lionheart. At 5’11, Cinder was nearly a foot taller than Ruth, who barely made the height requirement for Royal Air Force pilots—and Cinder wondered if the Faunus had been standing on tiptoes to reach that. She closely resembled her father—the same light tan skin, the feline tail that twitched impatiently behind her, small ears that poked out from her brown mane. She had a special dispensation for that hair: it was far longer than normal regulation. Her eyes were large, brown and expressive. “’Ello, Captain!” she chirped. In anyone else, the Cockney accent would’ve been annoying, but on Ruth Lionheart, it was oddly charming.

Cinder sincerely wished she could knock Ruth cold and dump her down the nearest mine shaft.

“Hello, Ruth. Come on in.”

Ruth walked into the room. “’Ello, everyone!”

“Morning,” Emerald said. Mercury said nothing. 

“Well, I see Mercury’s his usual cheery self,” Ruth said, and plopped down next to him just to annoy him. “And how are you this fine morning, Cinder?” It came out as “Cindah.” 

“I’m fine, Ruth. We were just discussing the dance this weekend.”

“Oh, yes! That’s going to be fine.” She looked around. “Everyone got dates yet?”

“Mercury’s bagged himself Weiss Schnee,” Emerald said.

“Way out of your league,” Ruth said, and Mercury visibly fought down an urge to punch her. “And you, Emerald? And you, Cindah?”

“I dunno,” Emerald shrugged. “I’ll find someone.”

“I’ll probably just go stag,” Cinder added. “See what I can turn up at the party.”

“With your looks? Oh my, Cindah, the lads will be falling all over themselves for you.” Ruth wiggled her eyebrows. “I suppose I should go find meself someone.”

“Great idea,” Mercury snarled.

Ruth laughed at him. “Y’know, I’ll do just that. In the meantime, Mercury Black, you can kiss my Faunus arse.” She hopped off the bed, swished her tail at Mercury, and looked at Cinder. “With your leave, Cap’n.” Cinder, who was smiling widely at seeing Mercury taken down a peg, nodded. Ruth sketched a salute and left the room. As soon as she was gone, Emerald erupted into laughter, and even Cinder could not suppress a giggle.

“Fuck all of you,” Mercury growled.

“You wish!” Emerald replied with a snort. 

He scowled and stared at Cinder. “Why is she even here?”

“Because we need her to be the face of Creamer Flight. The more the other pilots and Ozpin pay attention to Ruth Lionheart, the less they pay attention to us.”

“She doesn’t even know what we’re here for,” Mercury said. “She’s in the dark, and if she finds out, that little goody two shoes will run to Ozpin.”

“She won’t find out,” Cinder assured him. “And if she does, well…then we may have to do something about Flight Officer Lionheart.”

Emerald stopped laughing. “If we kill her, her father will blow the lid off us. He’ll tell them everything.”

“No, he won’t,” Cinder said. “Leonardo Lionheart won’t do a thing. He’s a broken man, and I intend to make sure he stays broken.” 

_Building 82814 (Base Library)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_25 April 2001_

“Blake?” The voice came from the top of a deep well. Blake heard the voice and began climbing up the ladder, but the ladder just kept getting longer and longer. Vaguely, she felt a hand on her shoulder. Blearily, she opened her eyes and saw blond hair. “Yang?” she whispered.

“Ah, no.” Blake’s vision cleared and she saw Sun Wukong. He was in his flight suit, and as usual, it was zipped down to his navel. Half-asleep, she reached out and put a hand on those washboard abs. “Yeah, good to see you too, Blake.”

Suddenly Blake woke up, and drew back her hand like she’d stuck it in a mousetrap. “Oh, shit! I’m sorry, Sun.”

“That’s perfectly okay. In fact, I’ll let you keep going for a whole hour.” Sun leered at her as he leaned over the table. Spread out in front of Blake—where she had been resting her head—was Weiss’ notes on the White Fang’s funding, as well as her own report on what she and Yang had learned at Junior’s club. She was trying to put them together. Into what, she wasn’t sure yet. “What’s this stuff?” Sun picked up the page on the Reedy Creek Faunus Youth Ranch. “Oh, hey, I went here once when I was a kid.”

Blake snatched it angrily out of his hand. “It’s an independent research project.”

“Whoa, take it easy.”

“I’ll take it any way I can. What do you want?” It came out a lot harsher than Blake intended.

Sun hesitated. “Well, there’s this dance coming up next week, so I was thinking…” He wondered if he should keep going; normally that sort of cold stare was only seen on a Schnee. “…well, it’s lame, but if you and I went together…maybe, not so lame?” Inwardly, Sun kicked himself. Though he liked to portray himself as a ladies’ man, beautiful Faunus girls like Blake Belladonna turned him back into the shy teenager he once had been.

Blake gathered her notes. “I don’t have time for a stupid dance.” She stuffed the notes into a Marine-issue knapsack and stalked out of the library.

“So that’s a definite maybe?” Sun called after her.

“You did _what?”_ Yang shouted as Blake collapsed onto her bed. “You turned down _Sun?_ And his massively toned abs?”

“You’re crazy!” Ruby added. “I mean, if he and his abs asked me out, I’d accept in a heartbeat. I don’t even have a date yet.” Yang didn’t say anything to that. One reason why Ruby didn’t have a date was because the base was petrified of her older sister, and how many bones might be broken should they make any moves on Lieutenant Rose. “You should go to the dance, Blake.”

“I’d rather drink avgas.” Blake rolled over in her bed and closed her eyes.

Yang sat down next to her and gently put a hand on her shoulder. “Blakey, we’re worried about you. You’re holding on way too tight.”

Weiss came out of the bathroom, drying her hands. “Yang’s right, Blake.” She licked her lips. “That tasted strange to say that.” She ignored Yang’s middle finger. “You’re not sleeping well, and you hardly eat.”

“I don’t care. People’s lives are at stake here.”

“Blake, we did what we were assigned to do! We know how the White Fang’s getting their aircraft, and thanks to Weiss, we know where they’re getting the cash!” Yang exclaimed. Weiss sat on her own bed and began doing up her hair, which allowed her to hide her expression. In the notes she had given the others, she had deleted the fact that the White Fang dummy corporations were being funded by her own family. Blake did not need to know that, especially in what was becoming an obsession. 

Blake turned back over, her yellow eyes blazing. “We still don’t know where Torchwick is! Goodwitch told us yesterday that the Army didn’t find anything in Ohio. He’s cleared out, and if Junior’s right, I bet he used the railroads to go somewhere. He’s probably not even in Ohio anymore.”

Ruby walked over and knelt down in front of her. “Blake, what’s going on? This is going way beyond just being worried about Torchwick.” When the Faunus didn’t reply, Ruby decided it was time, though she hated to do it. “When I told you about that forward-swept wing aircraft that nearly got Neptune, you turned white as Weiss’ panties.”

Weiss stopped braiding her hair. “My _what?”_

Ruby went on. “C’mon, Blake. You know who’s flying that bird, don’t you?” Blake’s lips actually curled back into a snarl; her ears, freed of their ribbon, went back in anger. Ruby ignored that, and took Blake’s hands into her own. “Please, Blake. We’re your friends. You can tell us.”

The snarl softened, and the ears drooped in sorrow rather than in anger. Tears welled in her eyes. “I can’t…please, Ruby…I can’t.” 

“Blake—“ Yang began. 

“Yang.” Ruby looked up at her sister. “It’s okay.”

Blake rubbed her eyes. “I’m sorry…I know we said no more secrets, but this isn’t one…I can talk about.”

“Okay, Blake. You can tell us when and if you feel like it.” Ruby reached into the dresser and pulled out one of Weiss’ monogrammed hankerchiefs; she glanced back, and the German girl nodded in approval. Ruby handed it to Blake. “We’re just asking you to take one day off. Have some fun. Forget all of this for one day. How does that sound?” 

Blake dried her eyes. “I can’t. I just can’t.”

Yang got to her feet. “You _can’t_ do a lot of things. Or _won’t_.” Weiss and Ruby looked up to her in shock. “I’ll be in the library. Maybe Sun and his abs will want to go out with _me._ ” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear. Problems for the good ship Bumblebee?
> 
> Ruth Lionheart is an OC, one I made up to replace Neo--who despite her Semblance, can't be in two places at once. Since I wanted Neo to hang around with Torchwick, and some events in "On RWBY Wings" happen before they do in canon RWBY, Neo wasn't going to be available. Hence Ruth, which is a call forward to Leonardo Lionheart in Season 5. I thought it would be interesting to have someone part of Cinder's group who has no idea that her fellow compatriots are not what they seem. It causes a real problem, especially as members of Creamer Flight start liking Ruth. Ruth ended up growing into a favorite character--not bad for someone who originally was going to be a NPC. And I have to do so much work in trying to write her traditional Cockney accent. 
> 
> And Sun's abs make a reappearance. Yep, totally onboard Bumblebee, but I do like some Black Sun too. And maybe some Solar Flare...


	36. All That She Wants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations for the JRB Beacon Formal Spring Dance begin in earnest, as everyone looks for dates. Weiss has agreed to date Jaune, but he feels bad about leaving Pyrrha alone. Nora has some intense negotiations to pursue with Ren, and Ruth Lionheart wants to find a date too. 
> 
> Love, or at least lust, is in the air at Beacon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter is just mostly comedy. We can't be serious all the time.
> 
> This chapter could also be titled The Trials of Ruth Lionheart. Yes, she's an OC, which I have been trying to avoid, but like my other OCs, they are there to push the story along, not to take it away from Team RWBY or JNPR. There is a very good reason that Ruth Lionheart, the daughter of Leonardo, is so prominent here. Her search for a date is loosely based on the short story "Little Red Riding Hood Seeks the Fruit of Love," from the RWBY "Red Like Roses" manga. I picture Ruth as looking like M'Ress from the old Star Trek Animated Series, but that could just be my love for catgirls. (Hi, Blake! Thanks for getting me into RWBY!)
> 
> I also hope readers will forgive my attempts at British slang (I researched this stuff for an hour the other day), which might make Ruth almost unintelligible to colonial readers. And maybe some British ones, too; I dunno. Note that the use of the dreaded c-word, while akin to launching nuclear missiles in the US, is a lot more common in the UK. Or so I've been told.

_Building 90414 (Male Officers’ Quarters)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_25 April 2001_

A billow of steam drifted out of the bathroom just ahead of Lie Ren, who came out clad only in a pink towel. Though Ren had been born and raised in China, a visit to Japan had left him with a love for the onsen, Japanese hot springs. It had been difficult to find any since, but he made do by taking showers in temperatures one degree cooler than live steam. It was quite relaxing and was one reason why Ren had a reputation of being unruffled even under the most stressful of situations. Jaune Arc had tried it and came howling out of the shower, so Ren admitted it wasn’t for everyone.

Ren was halfway to his closet when he realized he was not alone. He brushed back still-wet black hair and saw Nora Valkyrie. “Oh, hello, Nora.” He had given Nora a copy of his room key, in case she ever needed to talk. Given the expression on the pink-haired girl’s face, Nora was not there to talk. The fact that she was standing there dressed in an outlandish T-shirt, with an embroidered head-on picture of an A-10 and the words **BOOP** below the gun, and pink panties decorated with lightning bolts, confirmed Ren’s analysis of the situation. “Ah, Nora—“

“Hush, Ren.” Nora crossed the space between them in a second. She threw her arms around him and kissed him. Kiss was perhaps too easy of a word: Ren felt more like he was being attacked by a horny octopus, because her hands were everywhere. She pulled the towel off in a hurry. 

“What’s gotten into you?” he asked. 

“I know I said we’re not together-together,” she whispered huskily, “but maybe we need to change that.”

“We agreed that we shouldn’t as long as we were at the exercise—“

“I’m altering our agreement,” she growled, nibbling on his earlobe. “Pray I don’t alter it any further.”

Ren had no idea what had gotten into Nora, but this was something entirely new. They had certainly made out on several occasions, but agreed that anything further than the occasional hands-on situation, as it were, would wait until Vytal Flag was over. Ren would have to return to China, after all, while Nora would be heading back to her home base at Moody AFB, Georgia. Nora planned on getting temporary duty in China, or he would enroll in an exchange program with the USAF, and they could work on their relationship after that time. 

Except Nora was clearly in no mood to wait any longer. And feeling Nora’s rather ample bosom pressed against his bare chest, clearly only separated by the T-shirt and nothing else, led Ren to decide that ardent negotiations were indeed necessary. Without further adieu, Ren seized a double handful of Nora’s pink-clad derriere, to which she squealed happily. 

What might have happened next would be forever unknown, since Jaune Arc picked that moment to unlock the door and walk in. “Ren, we need to talk! I think I made a big mistake and….” His voice trailed off at the sight in front of him. “…and I think I’ve made another one.”

Nora broke off her kiss to stare at Jaune, with a look that promised imminent cessation of Jaune’s bodily functions. “Cockblocker,” she hissed murderously. 

Ren quickly turned away and grabbed the towel; he found he was glad of the interruption. “Nora,” he said quietly, in Chinese. The American girl had learned the language. “It’s all right. We should stop.”

“No!” she insisted. “Dammit, Ren—“

“Nora, we can talk about it later. In any case, I don’t have protection. Do you?”

She cursed. She hadn’t thought of that either, in the heat of the moment. “Fine.” She switched back to English. “You get to live this time, Jaune Arc.”

“Nora, Ren…I am really sorry.” Jaune turned away and gave them a few moments to get decent. Nora sat down on Ren’s bed, still angry, but Ren took the opportunity to slip on some underwear and slacks. “I didn’t know.”

“Should’ve left a damn sock on the door,” Nora groused.

“Enough, Nora.” Ren threw her a peace offering by leaving off his shirt. Though he was not in Sun’s league when it came to ripped musculature, he could more than hold his own. Most fighter pilots were in good shape; continual G-forces had a way of building up muscle tone, and it was not unusual for pilots to lose ten pounds of body weight in sweat during a mission. “What’s wrong, Jaune?”

Jaune sat on his own bed, staring at the floor. “I fucked up.”

“You sure as hell did.” This from Nora. Ren made a shushing motion. 

“Ren, I’m just going to say it. These last few weeks, you’ve become one of my best friends, even if you don’t say much. I mean, you’re really quiet. I don’t know all that much about you, really, but dammit, I consider you the brother I never had.” He looked up at Nora. “And Nora, you’ve been like a big sister to me. I have seven sisters, already, but you’re like the eighth.” Nora’s expression softened some. 

“Thank you, Jaune. I feel the same way,” Ren answered. “So what’s going on?”

“I just…don’t know…how to…girls,” Jaune stammered. Ren raised his eyebrows in confusion. Jaune took a breath. “Okay, here’s what happened. I asked Weiss out to the dance.”

Nora could not help but grin triumphantly. If she wasn’t going to have fun in the bedroom, neither was Jaune. “And she shot you down in flames.”

“Worse. She accepted.”

“How is that worse?” Ren questioned. Nora looked utterly shocked, which didn’t help Jaune’s feelings.

“Because Pyrrha wanted to go to the dance with me too. And now I feel like a giant asshole. Pyrrha’s been so good to me. Without her, I probably—no, I _wouldn’t_ be here. At all. I owe her.”

Ren fixed Jaune with a look. He was good at that sort of thing. “Jaune, let’s say you convinced Weiss that you made a mistake asking her out—which would probably not be difficult, mind—and then accepted Pyrrha’s invitation. Would you be doing so because you like Pyrrha…or because you pity her?”

Nora nodded. “Ren’s right, Jaune. If you gave Pyrrha a pity date, she’d know it. And that would break her heart worse than not going with you at all. And then I’d have to break your legs.” 

Jaune sighed. “I suppose you’re right, both of you. Pyrrha said it was okay, but…she just looked so devastated. I wish I’d known.”

“She seemed okay when she got back to the dorm last night,” Nora said. 

“You didn’t see her on the flightline. I _do_ like her,” Jaune insisted. “I just wish I knew what to do.”

At that point, there was a knock on the door. All three looked at each other, but as the knocks grew more insistent, Ren got up to answer it. He opened the door and found himself confronted with all five foot three inches of Ruth Lionheart. Her eyes widened at his chest. “Gor, but that’s a tight maconochie.”

Ren had no idea what that meant. “Can I help you, Flight Officer Lionheart?” He’d barely met Ruth, but she was one of only two RAF female personnel at Beacon, and the other was Velvet Scarlatina. 

Ruth did not answer, but looked beyond him. She took in Nora’s state of undress and Ren’s, and nodded. “Nothing for me here.” Then she spotted Jaune. “Ah! Leftenant Arc! Have you a date for next week’s dance? Because if you don’t, I’m your twist!”

“Uh…” Jaune had no idea to answer that. In all of his lifetime, he never thought he’d find himself in such high demand. “I think I’m going with Weiss Schnee.”

“Or Pyrrha Nikos,” Nora put in.

“Or Pyrrha Nikos,” Jaune added.

“Hm.” Ruth nodded. “Ah, well. Sounds a mite crowded, at that. Thanks anyway!” She looked Ren up and down, and purred. “Too bad.” Then she was gone.

“I have no idea what just happened,” Ren said.

Joint Base Beacon would continue to suffer the onslaught of Ruth Lionheart, who went all over the base for a date. She met with no success. Everyone was taken. The speed of which that everyone paired off was impressive; making matters worse for Ruth was that, through a strange twist of fate and personnel assignments, currently women pilots outnumbered male ones at about a ratio of two to one. It was the males who could be choosy. Since the dance would be limited to officers only, it similarly limited her choices, and in any case Ruth wanted to date a fighter pilot like herself. She honestly had no idea what normal people talked about. 

With nowhere else to go, she walked down the flightline, and caught sight of Cardin Winchester preflighting his F-15. Though the pilots had the day off, a combat air patrol still needed to be maintained, and Cardinal Flight had drawn the short straw. Ruth had already struck out with the other members of Cardinal, but the sight of Cardin made her mouth water. “Now there’s a strapping lad,” she told herself, and walked up to him. When Dorothy Baum had first spotted her future husband Leonardo Lionheart, she had taken the direct approach; the daughter took after the mother. “’Ello there, Cap’n!”

Cardin turned at the sound of the voice, and at first saw nothing. Then he looked down. He towered over Ruth, who grinned up at him. “What do you want, Lieutenant?”

“Oh, that would be Flight Officer, actually. As for what I want, Cap’n, ah, Winchester—“ she read his nametape “—I was wondering if you’d like to take me to the dance next week.”

“I don’t date Faunus,” he snapped at her.

Ruth had run into enough anti-Faunus bigotry in the United Kingdom to figure out why Cardin had said that. “Oh. So that’s a no, then.”

“Not just a no, but a _hell_ no.”

“Then, with all due respect, Cap’n, you can sod off, you fuckin’ cunt.” She turned on one heel and walked off. The sheer temerity of her actions left Cardin speechless.

Ruth ended up in the dispersal area where Creamer Flight was parked. She walked up to her Jaguar. She wished it was painted a little more inventively than RAF light gray. Every aircraft in Creamer was painted gray. “Ah, well,” she sighed. “I’ve been all over this feckin’ base, but none of these laddie bucks make me heart flutter.” Ruth patted the cool skin of the Jaguar and admired its lines. An older aircraft now, only a few years until it would be retired, but still impressive with its high wing, needle nose, and sleek fuselage. Below the cockpit was painted _Stalwart,_ under a crest of stylized angel wings. It was named after her father’s Lightning. 

She heard voices and looked across the taxiway. Sun Flight had landed some time before, and had just finished their postflight. Ruth saw no less than four eligible males: the dusky and handsome Sage Ayana, the rakishly handsome Scarlet David, the certainly not unattractive Neptune Vasillas, and the exceedingly good looking Sun Wukong. It was a veritable international smorgasbord for the unattached female, and Ruth homed on Sun like a laser-guided bomb. 

“’Ello there!” she greeted him as she walked across the taxiway.

Sun turned and waved. “Hello! You must be Ruth Lionheart. Always good to meet a fellow Faunus.”

“Certainly so! So you want to pop over with me to the gay and hearty?”

Sun and Neptune looked very confused, while Sage and Scarlet erupted in laughter. “She wants to know if you want to go with her to the dance,” Sage translated.

“Isn't that what I said?” Ruth asked.

“Er, no,” Sun told her. She was certainly cute, but she was no Blake Belladonna. “I have a date with Blake.” That was by no means confirmed, but Sun was not going to give up.

“Bloody hell.” She turned to Sage. “And you, sir?”

“Sorry, Flight Officer. You’re an hour late.” He had already asked a shy but agreeable Velvet.

“Bollocks! _Ma koreh?”_ she asked Scarlet. He was surprised that the Faunus girl had asked him what was up in colloquial Hebrew, but he shook his head. “I’m very sorry, Flight Officer, but I’m not into girls.”

“What? Oh. _Oh.”_ Ruth understood. Finally she looked at Neptune. “Well?”

Neptune wasn’t sure about being last on Ruth’s list of potential dates, but no one had asked him yet. He had his eye on Weiss, but base rumors—the fastest form of communication known to man—had it on good authority that the younger Schnee was dating Jaune Arc, which was momentous on its own. With Weiss taken, it was either Ruth or Cinder Fall, and frankly he found himself liking the spunky Faunus. “Hell, why not?” He took her hand and bowed over it, planting a kiss. “I would be honored to take you to this year’s Beacon Spring Formal, Flight Officer Lionheart.”

She grinned. “Well, squeeze the wombats. Thank you, Lieutenant Vasillas.” She then executed a curtsey to Sun Flight in general, and skipped off.

“This is one weird base,” Scarlet sighed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Renora with a vengeance! Yeah, teenage Ren and Nora might have been a little slow to be together-together, but adult Ren and Nora have other ideas. And Nora's shirt in this chapter should be real.
> 
> Ruth would probably be court-martialed for dropping the c-word on a superior officer, but Cardin's in enough trouble.


	37. Spending Time in Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the US Army moves up an armored division to the Mississippi River Barrier, Ironwood gets news that a train has slipped through the barrier, headed northwest. He sends an exhausted, depressed Blake out to get pictures of the train's possible destination: the abandoned community of Mountain Glenn.
> 
> Blake is escorted by Yang, and before they return to Beacon, Yang has some things she has to say to her friend. But not before seeing who's best in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two short chapters means one long chapter! 
> 
> With the exception of Ironwood, the first third with the 1st Armored Division is all OCs (though Miguel Calavera has a clear connection to canon RWBY). There's a little in-joke here to those who've read my Battletech Snowbird short stories (the Snowbird Saga, not yet on AO3). "Brigadier General Katsuragi" is a reference to Evangelion, of course.
> 
> The last two-thirds is pretty much all Bumblebee, with Yang and Blake. And if you ever wanted to see these two go at it in the air, this chapter is for you!

_Headquarters, 1 st Armored Division_

_Fort McCoy, Wisconsin, United States of America_

_26 April 2001_

“So those are our dispositions, General Ironwood. The 1st Brigade is centered around Menomonie, the 2nd around La Crosse, and the 3rd around Prairie du Chien.” 

Ironwood peered closer at the map spread out on the long table. “Forgive me for asking, General Calavera, but aren’t you abandoning northern Iowa? You’ve got nothing there but the regular border units.”

“No worries, sir.” Major General Miguel Calavera smiled. “You see, if the GRIMM should assault straight south into Iowa, the Eberle Line should hold them long enough for the 2nd and 3rd Brigades to cross the Mississippi and strike them in the flank. I’m having additional bridging units being deployed in case of that problem. And of course we could rely on the additional aircraft coming into Beacon for the Vytal Flag exercise for airstrikes, and the four B-52s you have at O’Hare.”

“Six,” Ironwood corrected. He had brought up two more B-52s for insurance. He inspected the map again. The plan for the defense of the Mississippi Barrier had been the same since the 1970s. The covering forces in the fortifications would hold as long as possible, calling in airstrikes until reinforcements could be brought forward. The US Army practiced rapid deployments every year, though moving an entire armored division forward had not been done in a decade. Large GRIMM assaults happened about once or twice a year, and every time the Barrier had bent but never broken. It was supposed to be flexible. For the twentieth time, Ironwood told himself that they were doing the right thing, that the largest Vytal Flag in years would be too tempting of a target to pass up. The 1st Armored was a deterrent, one that even _she_ would be reluctant to assault. He mentally cursed himself: it wasn’t as if even thinking Salem’s name would summon her. Ozpin was getting to him.

Besides, if worse came to absolute worse, there was always the Fall Maiden. 

“Very well, General—this looks good.” It felt odd approving the plans of a US Army general, but despite Calavera being Army and Ironwood Air Force, the latter had been handed command of the Vale Sector. In any case, Ironwood found himself liking Calavera: the general was just a shade over five feet, but built like a fire hydrant, who looked like he enjoyed wrestling alligators. His men and women loved him, and would charge the gates of hell for him—which reminded Ironwood of someone. “How is your grandmother these days?”

“ _Abuela?_ ” Calavera laughed. “Planning a trip to Europe. She doesn’t let anything slow her down.”

“I thought she was permanently banned from flying into Europe.”

“You think a little thing like a travel ban is going to stop the Grimm Reaper?” 

Ironwood laughed as well. Maria Calavera was a legend in the flying community; she probably knew more ways into Europe than anyone in the world. “I’ll leave you to it then, General.”

The two men shook hands, but before Ironwood could leave, there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Calavera called out, and an orderly stuck his head in. “General Calavera, there’s a Captain Bighorn-Vlata to see you.” The orderly paused. “She doesn’t have an appointment, but she insisted on seeing you.”

Calavera shrugged. “Show her in, Lieutenant.” To Ironwood, he said in explanation, “Captain Karelia Bighorn-Vlata. She commands Team Alpha in 2nd Battalion, 37th Armored Regiment. One of my up and coming team commanders.”

Ironwood turned as a tall, raven-haired woman walked in. She came to attention and saluted. “Good afternoon, sir.”

“Captain Bighorn-Vlata. This is a bit irregular,” Calavera told her. “I meant it when I said my door was always open, but I also would like it if you made an appointment.”

“My apologies, sir. It’s just…hardly anyone will listen. I went to battalion, then to regiment. Battalion wouldn’t listen, but Colonel Ridinghood told me to come straight to you.”

Calavera raised an eyebrow. “Bypassing the chain of command, Captain?”

“Sir. Colonel Ridinghood would be here as well, but he’s up in Menomonie today. And he recommended bypassing brigade with this.” 

The general leaned against his table, and gestured to Bighorn-Vlata. “Since you’ve decided to risk your career, I’d be a fool to ignore you.” The captain glanced at Ironwood, but Calavera held up a hand. “Anything you say to me can be said in front of General Ironwood, Captain. He’s _my_ superior officer.”

“Yes, sir. Very good, sir.” Bighorn-Vlata moved forward to the map. “May I, sir?” Calavera nodded. She searched the map for a second, then put a finger on La Crosse. “Sir, two nights ago, a train crossed the Mississippi here, into the Minnesota Dead Zone. A freight train of some sort.”

“That would be very unusual, Captain, considering that the train bridge at La Crosse has been closed for thirty-five years,” Calavera said.

“Actually, sir, it’s only been fifteen.” At his expression, Bighorn-Vlata quickly added, “I did some research, General. Back in the mid-80s, a bunch of settlers tried to rebuild a suburb of St. Paul—Cottage Grove, it used to be called, but the settlers renamed it Mountain Glenn.”

Ironwood came to rescue of the captain. “She’s right, General. I remember the Mountain Glenn settlement. It was part of President Reagan’s ‘Tear Down The Wall’ initiative, where we would start retaking parts of the Dead Zones.” He looked at Bighorn-Vlata. “It worked in some places, but not Mountain Glenn. The people there lasted for about a year until they were overrun by GRIMM. Captain Ozpin over at Beacon—well, he was Commander Ozpin then—he helped cover the survivors. Not that there were many to rescue.” He motioned at the captain. “Sorry to interrupt, miss.”

“No worries, sir. The settlers used the railroad to resupply themselves. It was in better shape than the road network. The bridge was closed after Mountain Glenn was destroyed, but according to the locals, it’s occasionally still used. By smugglers.”

“I’d heard rumors about that.” Calavera traced the old rail line on the map to Mountain Glenn. It was not listed on the map, but then again, only major ruin sites in the Minnesota Dead Zone were. “How did you know about the train?”

“A few of my personnel saw it around 0300, and reported it to me. By the time I got to the bridge, it was gone, and the locals said I was crazy. So did Major Katsuragi at Battalion. But I’m telling you, sir, that bridge was used. I went out on it and looked around. Someone’s been maintaining it!”

“Calm down, Captain; I believe you.” Calavera rubbed his mustache. “Well, it wouldn’t surprise me. Like I said, I’ve heard about smugglers running illegal trains through the Dead Zones. It’s not as hard as it sounds. Probably the locals were bribed. How big did your guys say the train was?”

“They said it was as big as some of our divisional trains, sir. Container cars and boxcars. They couldn’t see inside.”

“Very well.” Calavera nodded to Bighorn-Vlata. “I’ll look into it, Captain. Next time, though, don’t jump the chain of command like that. Brigadier General Johnson is a good man—he would’ve listened to you or Ridinghood. Dismissed.” They exchanged salutes, and the captain left.

“Interesting woman. She reminds me of someone,” Ironwood remarked, thinking of Winter Schnee. 

“She’ll probably get her own regiment someday, if she doesn’t get killed, but she’ll never go beyond lieutenant colonel. Speaks her mind too much.” Calavera ran his hand over the map again. “Still, I believe her. She’s reliable—so is Colonel Ridinghood. Katsuragi I’m not sure about. Likes the bottle a bit too much.” He picked up a pencil and scrawled _Mountain Glenn_ on the map site. “It’s probably just someone running crap up to Canada through the Dead Zone. Crazy with all the GRIMM that are supposedly around. Which we haven’t seen.” He turned back to Ironwood. “What do you think, General?”

Ironwood shrugged. “Like you said, just smugglers. Still, I could have Ozpin run a recon mission over Mountain Glenn. It wouldn’t hurt.”

“With Vytal Flag?”

“The training started weeks ago. The big training missions that everyone’s watching on TV—which I think is a terrible idea, I might add—won’t start until week after next, after the big dance.” At Calavera’s questioning expression, Ironwood said, “Tradition. Beacon usually has a spring formal. You’re invited, of course.”

“Never been much of a dancer.” Calavera laughed. “Besides, my wife is still in Texas. She’d have my balls in a wheelbarrow if I danced with anyone but her.”

_Building 71414 (Base Headquarters, JRB Beacon)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_27 April 2001_

“Lieutenant Blake Belladonna, reporting as ordered, ma’am.” Blake came to attention before Glynda Goodwitch’s desk. 

“Good morning, Lieutenant.” Unlike Ozpin, who preferred a more traditional office, Goodwitch had a stand-up desk. Blake wondered to herself if she had ever seen the other woman sitting down. “We have a mission for you.” She gave Blake a once-over. “If you feel up to it. With all due respect, Lieutenant, you look like hell.”

Blake knew she did. She had looked in the mirror that morning and been shocked at her appearance. While she was still very squared away as far as regulations went, there was no amount of makeup that could cover the sunken eyes and pale face. When she had gotten out of the shower, Blake had noticed that she could see her ribs: she had always been thin, but never like this. She was living on caffeine and whatever food ended up in the dorm room refrigerator, but what choice did she have? “I’m all right, Colonel.”

“Very well. We don’t have anyone qualified for reconnaissance missions here at the base, except you and Flying Officer Scarlatina, and her Tornado isn’t equipped with a camera pod. We still have the TARPS pod you used over Cleveland, so we’re sending you back out again, today.”

Blake felt the fear well up in her throat. If they were going to send her over Cleveland again, that meant Torchwick, and Torchwick meant Adam. She clenched her fists to stop them trembling. Goodwitch noticed. “Are you _sure_ you’re all right, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s just that…that last mission to Cleveland was a little, er, hair-raising.”

“You flew through a thunderstorm. I should think it was fucking terrifying.” Blake found herself smiling at Goodwitch’s remark, which was the Colonel’s intention. Goodwitch rarely swore. “And you nearly got shot down by Roman Torchwick, so that would also be a little disconcerting.” She reached into the desk and handed Blake a sheet of paper. “Nothing too bad this time, Lieutenant. We just need you to do a recon run over the Twin Cities. Apparently a smuggler train managed to get across the Mississippi at La Crosse the other day, and it’s got the Army upset. I sincerely doubt you’ll find anything but ruins, but we have to please General Ironwood.” She could not keep the contempt out of her voice. “Should be a milk run, Lieutenant. I’m almost ashamed to order you to do it.”

Blake nodded. “To be honest, ma’am, a milk run sounds like what I need right now.”

Goodwitch returned the nod. “I know, right? Sometimes you just need to get up there and fly around a little to get it out of your system.” The Colonel turned a little pink, as if embarrassed to show that she was human after all. “You might as well leave as soon as you can, Lieutenant. You’ve already been cleared. I’ve got you an escort as well—nobody flies alone over the Dead Zones.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Blake had hoped she could get some alone time in the air—it would probably be helpful to clear her head—but Goodwitch was right: if she ran into GRIMM over the Minnesota Dead Zone, alone, even Beowolves could swamp her quickly. “Who’s the escort?”

Goodwitch gave her a quizzical look. “I should think it was obvious, Lieutenant. Your wingman—or wingperson, or whatever PC term we’re using these days. Captain Long.” 

Blake found Yang waiting for her at the _Gambol Shroud._ She was leaning up against the F-14, arms folded, aviator sunglasses on, legs crossed in an I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude. “What’s up?” she greeted Blake.

“Hi.” Blake really hoped Yang wasn’t here for an argument. The two had barely exchanged more than five words in the past two days. 

“Doubt we’ll find anything up there, but I’m groomed for GRIMM just in case.” Yang pointed across to _Ember Celica,_ which was festooned with AMRAAMs. _Gambol Shroud_ was carrying two AMRAAMs and two Sidewinders, plus the TARPS camera pod nestled between the engines. 

“Okay. That’s good.” 

Yang evidently figured out she wasn’t going to get anything else out of Blake, so she merely said “See you up there,” pushed off the F-14 and walked over to her own aircraft. Blake watched her go, shook herself, then began her preflight. 

They took off into the afternoon sunlight ten minutes later. Yang slid into a covering position off Blake’s right wing, and other than routine checking in with Pinetree, the Vale Air Defense Sector ground controller, they said nothing to each other. It took less than fifteen minutes to reach the ruins of the Twin Cities. 

Blake checked the notes in her kneepad. _All right,_ she thought to herself, _I’m supposed to make two high level camera runs over this Mountain Glenn place._ She reached forward and checked her map display, then her altimeter. She was at 25,000 feet, and throttled back. There was no reason to speed past this. One glance at her RWR display showed nothing. “Beginning my run, east to west.”

“Roger. I’m high and right. No threats,” Yang reported. She was seeing nothing as well. 

Blake made a leisurely run over Mountain Glenn. Looking through the TCS camera slung under the F-14’s nose, she saw the ground below. There was a two lane road that was fairly clear of debris running through it, and a railroad paralleling the road; the railroad split off into a small railyard. There were the ruins of a refinery at the northwest end of the town, with a black streak running directly east. _The nuke going off must’ve touched off the refinery with the heat pulse. The fire would’ve burned out of control._ Blake shuddered at the thought of what kind of horror a nuclear explosion would unleash. She noticed a small airfield across the Mississippi River, in what would have been South St. Paul. 

She turned around and made another run, this time slightly lower at 20,000 feet. Once more, she saw nothing but ruins. “Yang,” she radioed, “I don’t know if the pod is getting anything, but I can’t see much from up here. I’m going to make a third run at low level.”

There was no response at first, but Yang finally said, “Roger. Be careful.”

Blake made a gentle turn back onto a northwesterly course, then suddenly raked back the Tomcat’s wings and roared down to five thousand feet. She pulled out of the dive, chopped the throttle back, and flew just as leisurely at low level as she had at high altitude. Above her, Yang felt her throat tighten: Blake was asking to get shot down. She couldn’t make a better target. 

But nothing happened. Once more, Blake reached the end of her run. She climbed back to 25,000 feet, switched off the TARPS pod, and set course back towards Beacon. 

“Hey, Blake,” Yang called out once they were back across the Mississippi. “You want to hassle? I got plenty of fuel.”

“Not really.” 

“Too bad. Beacon Control, this is Yang. Do we have clear airspace? Blake and I want to do a little 1V1 training.”

“Yang—“ Blake protested.

“Yang, Beacon Control. Roger that, your airspace is clear. No traffic in your area for awhile…I can give you about 30 minutes of playtime.”

“Sierra hotel, Beacon.” Blake watched as the F-15 suddenly rolled out of her field of view. Instinctively, Blake craned her head around to follow as Yang dropped in behind the Tomcat’s twin tails. “I think we should make a bet. If you lose, you come to the dance. If you win, I will go to the dance in my underwear.”

“Yang, that’s—“

“Fight’s on!” Blake heard her RWR scream for her attention as Yang locked on. She snapped the stick to the right and dived, breaking the lock. “Yang, I don’t—“ As Blake dived and began to pull out, the RWR screeched for her attention again as Yang reacquired in the dive. “All right, dammit,” Blake snarled. “You want a fight, you got it, bitch.” A quick glance at the altimeter, and she threw _Gambol Shroud_ into a split-S, rolling out at six thousand feet going away. Her finger hovered over the holographic decoy switch, but she pulled back. She was going to kill Yang on her own. 

Blake climbed for two seconds, then rolled out into level flight, eyes searching for her foe. As she had anticipated, Yang had not followed her through the split-S, but was coming around to catch her at low level, where the F-15’s radar was excellent. She saw Blake at the same time and turned hard: now both women were heading straight at each other, head on. Blake set up her gunsight for a gun pass, but Yang was past before either could get more than a second. By the unofficial rules of hassling, one had to hold their opponent in the center of the gunsight, the pipper, for three seconds—the time a missile would take to hit in real life. 

Straining against the Gs, Blake pulled back into a turn, and knew Yang would do the same. Sure enough, her opponent was also turning back into her. They crossed paths, then reversed their turns, ending up in a horizontal scissors. Both women gasped into their oxygen masks and grunted when the G-suits squeezed them, keeping blood in their brains; sweat began to bead under their helmets, and eyes strained to keep the other person in sight. Each cheated the turn tighter, dropped the throttles back a small amount every turn, each trying to force the other out in front. Blake grinned savagely, caught up in the hunt despite herself: her F-14, without the amount of missiles or fuel Yang was carrying on her F-15, was actually lighter. She would get in behind _Ember Celica_ before Yang would get behind her. 

They competed their eighth crossover, and Blake noticed that she almost was behind the F-15. _One more pass, and I’ve got her!_ She pushed the stick into her left knee, stepped on the left rudder pedal, and even opened her speedbrake a smidgen, bleeding off more speed and getting dangerously close to a stall. Blake waited for Yang to make a perfect spreadeagled shot in her gunsight.

Except the F-15 was not there. Yang had not turned into her. “Where the hell…” Blake said. She leveled out for a moment, searching frantically for her foe.

_“Takka takka takka!”_ Yang shouted, the old call of a fighter pilot in a fake gun pass. At the same time, her Tomcat’s RWR screeched again, letting Blake know she was locked on. Blake suddenly realized what Yang had done: she had broken off from the scissors, climbed, and waited for Blake to fly right into a trap. The semi-stealthy design of the _Gambol Shroud_ did not really help at this range; Yang could kill her visually. She tried to turn, but the F-14 would not respond fast enough. She was out of energy: Blake had expended too much in the scissors. Three seconds later, and it was over. Blake almost cursed, then sighed, went to level flight again, and waggled her wings in surrender. She reached out and patted the instrument panel. “Not your fault,” she told her aircraft. 

Yang dropped down to fly parallel. “Blake, go channel three. Beacon, we’re leaving Guard channel for a bit.” Without knowing why, Blake made the radio switch. Channel three was a more discreet frequency; no one should be listening. “You receiving this channel?”

“Five-square. You got me, Yang. I guess I’ll go to the damn dance.” Blake was a lot of things, would do a lot of things, but she would not break her word. 

“That’s awesome, but not what I wanted to talk about. Now that I’ve got a captive audience, anyway. You need to slow down, Blake.”

“Slowing down just got me killed, Yang.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t have the luxury of slowing down.”

“Like hell you don’t. C’mon, Blake. I don’t mind waxing your ass up here, but it doesn’t mean a damn thing when you’re not at your best. You’re exhausted, you haven’t been eating much, you’re burning the candle at both ends. In short, Blake, you’re being an asshole.” Blake had to smile at that. “How’s your fuel?”

“Plenty, but I really don’t feel like fighting you again.” Her heart was still pounding from the short dogfight, and Blake had to admit Yang had a point. Normally she would not feel so tired, even after that kind of exertion. 

“Not my plan. Just wanted to tell you a story.” Yang paused, and Blake could see her checking the air around them. They were approaching Lake Michigan and Door County, so Yang began a gentle turn to the left; Blake let her have the lead and followed. 

“So Ruby and I grew up in Patch. It’s in North Carolina. Our parents were fighter pilots, of course. Dad was USAF, and he taught at Signal. Mom was a Huntress; she flew long-distance missions against the GRIMM out of Kirtland and Ellsworth. Her name was Summer Rose…and she was like, Supermom or something. She’d go fly a 12-hour mission, fly six hours back to us, then bake cookies when she got home. That was Summer: she was more proud of her cookies than the fact that she had shot down more GRIMM than anyone in the USAF, with the exception of the ol’ Grimm Reaper, Maria Calavera. 

“And then, one day…she didn’t come back.” Blake heard the emotion in Yang’s voice. She wished she could reach out of the canopy, across the half-mile that separated, and touch her friend’s hand. “It was tough. Ruby was really torn up, but she was still pretty little; she didn’t really get what had happened. Dad just sort of shut down for awhile. It wasn’t too long before I learned why: Summer Rose was his _second_ wife. His first was my mother.”

_That explains it,_ thought Blake. Though there were noticeable similarities between the sisters, there were far more differences. “Who was the first?” Blake knew it was not really any of her business, but curiosity won out.

“Dad wouldn’t tell me everything, but I learned her name: Raven. She had been in the same squadron, hell, the same _flight_ as Dad and our uncle Qrow. They got married, and then Raven up and hauled ass after I was born. Summer came over to help him with baby me, and one thing led to another, and they got married.”

Blake checked their spacing. They were fine, and the sky was still clear. “Why did she leave you?”

“Beats the hell out of me, but I damn sure wanted to know why. I still do. It was all I thought about. I would ask everyone. I became a huge pain in everyone’s ass. One day, I found a clue—or I thought it was. Dad was out, so I put Ruby—all of three years old Rubes—in a wagon, and just set out. 

“I walked for hours. Ruby fell asleep. I was about there with her. It started snowing, and of course we got lost. And we weren’t dressed for the weather. I was exhausted. We were freezing. But I kept going. I didn’t care even when I couldn’t feel my toes. I put my coat around Ruby to keep her warm. I didn’t care if I died later, just as long as I found where my mom was. Just a stupid kid lost in the Great Smoky Mountains, and taking her sister out with her. Luckily, Uncle Qrow found us. I spent the night in the hospital from exposure. Turns out I’d been going in circles; we were only about six miles from the house. My stubbornness should’ve got both of us killed that night.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you, Yang,” Blake said with sincerity, “and I know what you’re trying to tell me. But this is different. I’m not a child—“

“Then quit acting like one. I don’t want you to stop, Blake! I still look for my mother. That’s why I was at Junior’s the time I got into the fight there. I thought he could tell me. I’m going to find her someday, Blake. And you’re going to stop the White Fang—with our help. But not at the price of destroying ourselves in the process.”

“You don’t understand, Yang.”

Yang suddenly closed the distance to a quarter of a mile, causing Blake to sheer off. “Come on, Blake! If Roman Torchwick bounced us right now, what would you do?”

“I’d smoke his ass!” Blake shouted.

“Like you smoked _my_ ass, just a minute ago?” Yang let the sentence hang in the air for a moment. “Blake, you’re a damn fine fighter pilot. You and Sun went up against a skyful of White Fang and outfought them. You got the most advanced plane in the inventory right now. You flew through a fucking thunderstorm to get those pictures over Cleveland. But you keep not sleeping, and not eating, and keep hanging your ass out, and it’s going to get shot off. You going to stop the Fangers when you’re dead? Huh? All you’re going to get is a Sidewinder up your cute little Faunus ass and a nice flag for your mama and papa.”

Blake met Yang’s lilac eyes, across the sky. Yang was right. In her mind’s eye, she could see her father and mother, next to a grave, being handed a flag by a solemn Marine—her father, trying to remain stoic, while her mother dissolved into tears. Would there even be a body? She did not want to ask Yang if they had gotten Summer Rose’s body back. If she had been shot down, there would not be much left. Once, at Patuxent River, Blake had helped with a crash investigation of a F-18. There had been nothing left of the pilot but a blackened, carbonized skeleton; they had identified him by the wedding and class rings fused to his left hand. “Okay,” she said to Yang. “Okay.”

“That’s more like it. Now fall into trail, Marine. Let’s head back to the barn before Beacon starts wondering what the hell we’re circling northern Wisconsin for.”

“Yes, sir,” Blake responded, which caused Yang to laugh. Yang had a dirty laugh, Blake thought, but it was one she liked hearing. 


	38. White Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman and Neo descend into the deserted underground settlement of Mountain Glenn--except it's not deserted, but now a haven for the White Fang. Sienna and Adam have a plan to attack Beacon, and they've been joined by another of Salem's faction to guarantee it's success.
> 
> It's going to be a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter for the bad guys, and some background on Mountain Glenn in this world.

_Mountain Glenn_

_Minnesota Dead Zone, United States of Canada_

_27 April 2001_

Roman Torchwick came out of the culvert. The fresh breeze from the south felt good, as did stretching his legs. While the F-14 had made its passes overhead, he and Neo Politan had been forced to take cover in an old culvert. It was cozy, but romance was the last thing on either person’s mind. If the Tomcat had seen either one of them, it would have at the least brought in a Ranger team to figure out why there were people moving around somewhere that was supposed to be deserted.

“Damn. We’ll have to wait until after dark, Neo. If the wind doesn’t shift.” She nodded. Hidden under trees were the last four cars of the train, which contained the wreckage of Neo’s Sea Harrier. Unlike Torchwick’s aircraft, which was at the bottom of Lake Erie, hers was still repairable. There were still four MiGs left to unload as well. “I guess we’d better get back underground.”

“Yuk,” Neo commented. 

“Better than letting the whole world know that we’re here.” Roman motioned for her to follow. They walked across the deserted railyard, where abandoned railcars quietly rusted away, some already frozen into the tracks. They picked up the pace as the wind began to shift; if it began blowing in from the north, there was the danger of radiation. Unlike Cleveland, where almost all the radiation had dissipated, Minneapolis-St. Paul had been hit by a ground burst nuclear warhead, this one with a dirty warhead laced with strontium-90. Even today, going into ground zero without full body protection would kill in an hour or less. Dust from the north was impregnated with radioactivity. 

They found what looked to be an abandoned loading dock. Torchwick rapped on the rusted steel doors—upon closer inspection, one would find the rust to be paint. The door creaked open, just enough for Roman and Neo to duck under it. 

There was a White Fang guard standing next to the door. He wore casual clothes, but the White Fang’s white jerkin over them, decorated with the snarling head emblem. “Sienna Khan wants to see you,” the guard rumbled, and tossed them flashlights.

“Thanks,” Roman replied, and switched on his light. Neo gave the guard a murderous look and followed her lover into the stygian darkness of Mountain Glenn.

Roman knew the story behind the place. In the 1980s, a man named Glenn Faust had been given permission to move 2500 men, women and children into the Minnesota Dead Zone, in an effort to take some of it back. Faust had been warned that he would be better off rehabilitating one of the smaller abandoned cities along the Mississippi, like Winona or Wabasha, where one or two families still held on. Faust, however, was a proud man, and wanted the big score; in any case, his family had been from St. Paul, and rebuilding there was a personal obsession for the man. They had settled in Cottage Grove, and for the first year, despite the radiation, had done well enough: they rebuilt houses, cleared streets, repaired the railroad, and were even able to reopen parts of the destroyed refinery to supply them with fuel to run the generators. That gave them electricity. Farms with protective screens against radioactive dust were opened to make them self-sufficient. The grateful and determined settlers had renamed Cottage Grove Mountain Glenn after their founder.

Without GRIMM, Mountain Glenn would have been a success story, but the GRIMM were drawn to the settlement like moths to a flame. After six months of being left alone, the attacks had begun—the Beowolves and Ursa were bad enough, but it was the ground-based Boarbatusks and Goliaths that threatened to overrun Mountain Glenn. With JRB Beacon committed to fighting off GRIMM attacks nearly every day, the US government advised Faust to evacuate the settlement, but he refused—and he had anticipated that the day would come. Even as half his settlers had begun clearing the mildewed, destroyed houses and debris-strewn roads, the other half had been digging into the hillsides above the Mississippi. They had built deep bunkers that stretched below Mountain Glenn, beneath the settlement and the abandoned but still usable railyard. When Faust got the evacuation order, he ignored it and told his people that they would stay, as their ancestors had refused to leave their homes in the face of tribal attacks on the Great Plains. He told anyone who wanted to leave to do so. Three families—about 35 people—had left and been evacuated to La Crosse. The rest retreated underground, closed the doors, and let the GRIMM have their way with the ruins above. Below, there was enough food for a year, and power drawn from the generators, and air filtered in through elaborate baffles that were unseen to the GRIMM. Mountain Glenn was safe, and if the rest of the United States wrote them off, that was fine with Glenn Faust and his people. 

Unfortunately, Roman reflected to himself as they made their way down the long, gradual ramp in the darkness, Mountain Glenn was not safe. Someone had left open a door, or had been outside at the wrong time, or perhaps the GRIMM just had their ways of sniffing out sentient beings. In any case, the doors had been smashed down, unleashing a horde of GRIMM into Mountain Glenn’s bunkers. The inhabitants had died to almost a man, making their last stand in the dark hallways and rooms. It had taken weeks, but Mountain Glenn was no more, the people’s battle forgotten along with the settlement itself.

Except for Roman Torchwick. A handful of people had managed to escape, and in Junior Xiong’s bar, as a young thief just beginning to form his air pirate gang, Roman talked to an old man who told him the story of Mountain Glenn. On a hunch, he slipped past the barrier—it was simple to do so, as the US Army defenders were not ordered to stop people from committing suicide—and made his way to Mountain Glenn. Inside, he found a charnel house of corpses, but to his pleasant surprise, the bunkers were intact. GRIMM were only interested in killing people, not loot, and most of the underground rooms were intact. Power was even still on in spots, and even much of the food was edible. As Roman was already planning on setting up in the Ohio Dead Zone, he did not use Mountain Glenn, but occasionally would send some of his gang over to check on the place, repair the doors, and keep it as an emergency hidey-hole. It was too close to the Barrier and Beacon to really be used, but it was always good to have, and the place was impregnable—as long as it wasn’t found.

They came to another door, and once more Roman rapped on it, using the flashlight. This door opened fully, because unlike the first, outer door, the power was still on here. Light flooded the passageway, making Roman and Neo blink, and they walked into the central warren of Mountain Glenn. The area had been designed by the long-dead Glenn Faust as a storage area for vehicles, and it was still serving that purpose: there were twelve MiG-21s parked inside, along with eight F-5s, and two other aircraft under tarps. One was Adam Taurus’s swept wing craft, which he called _Wilt_ ; Roman thought it was a stupid name, not nearly as exciting as his old Sea Harrier’s name, _Melodic Cudgel,_ or Neo’s, simply named _Hush._ _Wilt_ just did not sound particularly threatening. The other was a secret Roman was keeping.

The giant warren, the size of a large warehouse, was a beehive of activity and noise, as both White Fang and Torchwick Gang personnel restored the aircraft to flight readiness. Others were unboxing supplies. Roman had planned to stay here for awhile, at least until things blew over and the Vytal Flag tournament ended. Now he wondered if that would even be possible. He had a few other hiding places, but very few, and none as well-hidden.

They made their way across the warren to one of the rooms off the side. It had been Glenn Faust’s home and office, but it was centrally located and made a perfect headquarters. When Roman opened the door, the sight of Sienna Khan and Adam Taunus was no longer a surprise, even the sinister mask Adam wore. The third person in the room was a surprise, however: he was an older man, with gray hairs at his temple and a thick mustache. 

“It took you long enough,” Sienna snapped. 

“In case they didn’t tell you,” Roman replied, “we just got overflown by a F-14. Three times.”

Adam instantly was riveted on Roman. “What color was it?”

“Black. The same one that was at Cleveland. I think I saw a F-15 holding high as well; probably an escort. My guess would be it was the same one who made me take a swim in Lake Erie.” 

Adam rubbed his chin in thought with his left hand; Roman noticed the right gripping the hilt of his sword, worn Japanese style. He had to admit he liked Adam’s style, if nothing else. “Very interesting,” Adam said. “I know who flies that aircraft.”

“Friend of yours?” Roman asked.

“Depends on which one of us you ask.”

“Ex-girlfriend?” Neo smiled. 

Adam laughed. “As a matter of fact, yes.” He returned Neo’s smile. “Women do have a sense for these things, don’t they?”

“If we’re done with the marital encounter group,” Sienna snarled, “I’d like to get on with this. Torchwick, do you think they spotted us?”

Roman shook his head. “Right then? No. The Tomcat did make a rather low pass, but Neo and I were the only ones above ground, and we hid in a culvert. When they develop the film, it might be a different story, especially if they figure out it was us that crossed the river at La Crosse.”

“I knew we couldn’t trust those damn humans!” Sienna exclaimed, forgetting that she and Adam were the only Faunus in the room. “Those planes weren’t here by coincidence. Someone in La Crosse talked.”

“Money only goes so far,” Roman admitted.

“Yes, it does. And now your hideout, impressive as it is, Torchwick, has been compromised!”

“Not necessarily,” said the older man, with a hint of a British accent. “If it was, it would have been more than two aircraft. It would have been a strike force. And even if the photographs show the train on the siding, the train has been broken into components. More than likely, the photo interpreters will see the remnant of an old train and assume it was one either abandoned when the Twin Cities were destroyed or when Mountain Glenn was overrun.” He smoothed his mustache. “People believe what they want to believe, after all.”

“And speaking of not trusting humans,” Roman said, thumbing at the mustachioed man, “who the hell is this?”

Before Sienna could answer, the man did so for her. “Ah, manners. My name is Arthur Watts. _Doctor_ Arthur Watts, formerly of British Aerospace, Eurofighter, and Schnee GmbH. Mostly the latter.” He gave a short, proper bow. “A pleasure to meet the famous air pirate Roman Torchwick.” Roman bowed back; he admitted to himself that he didn’t mind flattery. 

“Dr. Watts comes to us from the same patron that Cinder Fall did,” Sienna said, with an aside glance at him. “He’s an expert in computers and aerospace design.”

“Oh, excellent,” Roman remarked. “Then he can fix up Neo’s old Sea Harrier.”

Watts’ eyebrows raised. “A Sea Harrier, you say? How quaint. It would be a pleasure, really.”

Sienna sighed. “I don’t suppose we could get back to our plan, could we? If we’re not about to be blown apart by the United States Air Force, that is.”

“I think the good doctor’s right,” Roman told her. “We should be all right. But no flying, obviously.” He motioned at Sienna. “Proceed, Miss Khan.”

“Why, thank you,” Sienna replied with heavy sarcasm. She unrolled a map, using Watts’ humidor and clip to hold down one end; Adam used his sword to hold down the other. “I expect all of you to keep this very quiet. Especially you two.” She looked at Roman and Neo. “Here is the plan for our assault on Beacon.”

“It really should have an operation name,” Adam remarked. “We’ll have to come up with something appropriate.” He chuckled as inspiration struck. “Wedding Party.”

Sienna actually smiled. “Hmm. Oddly enough, I rather like that.” She returned her attention to the map. “Very well, then—Operation Wedding Party. 

“In a few nights, Beacon will be having its Spring Formal Dance. Cinder Fall and her team will use the party as cover to plant a virus in Beacon’s computer system.” 

“The virus is something I came up with, called Black Queen,” Watts said. “In an effort to improve interservice cooperation, the US military has developed a linked system called Future Warrior. It allows US Air Force, Navy and Army computers to talk to each other, essentially. It also allows them to datalink targeting information with DUST. An Army tank commander, for instance, could lase a target. Future Warrior would transmit the target’s location to overhead aircraft and other tanks, DUST would allow independent targeting and quick reaction. Good news…but it also means that Black Queen, once implanted into one system, will quickly affect all of them. Using the virus, I could, in theory, command any aircraft with DUST systems, or tanks with Future Warrior, to fire on each other. Quite the force multiplier, eh, Mr. Torchwick?”

“I’m liking what I hear so far,” Roman said. Neo clapped her hands, only half-sarcastically.

“Dr. Watts will activate Black Queen on May 8,” Sienna continued. “Or sooner, if some reason we’re discovered before then. We will link up the train again, but this time, instead of ourselves, our aircraft, and our supplies, it will be filled with high explosives. The tank cars will be full of gasoline. The train will be run at normal speed down the river, but once on the La Crosse bridge, it will be run up to full speed. It will likely derail once it hits the curve at the La Crosse yard, and detonate. The subsequent explosion will flatten La Crosse, blow a hole in the US Army’s defenses, and cause mass panic. Beacon, with its computers in disarray, will be too busy assisting in disaster relief to notice the next phase, until it’s too late.”

Roman was taken aback. “How many people…do you think…at La Crosse?” This part of the plan he had not been aware of. It was one thing to shoot the occasional recalcitrant hostage to motivate the others. It was another to commit mass murder.

“I should think several hundred,” Adam said, quite calmly. “Why? Is that a problem?”

Roman found himself unable to answer, so Neo did for him. “No.” 

“Good. It’s a little distasteful, I admit, but it’s unfortunately part of the job.” Adam turned back to Sienna. “Sorry to interrupt, High Leader.”

“Very well,” Sienna said testily. “After the train explosion and the activation of Black Queen, Roman, you and Adam will lead an airstrike on Beacon. With any luck, aside from perhaps their combat air patrol, you will catch the majority of their aircraft on the ground. That will pave the way for an assault force of White Fang, led by myself. We will overrun the base, destroy it, and then exfiltrate. The entire operation should last about four hours, and we will be gone before reinforcements arrive.”

“May I ask two questions, High Leader?” Adam raised two fingers. “One, how will we take off from here, and two, how will the White Fang get to Beacon?”

“I can answer that first question,” Roman said, having recovered his balance. “Across the Mississippi is a small airfield. From the air—and hopefully in that Tomcat pilot’s photographs—it will look deserted and unusable. In fact, it is actually quite operational. Between here and there is a sunken bridge…except the bridge can be raised. We will tow the aircraft over to the airfield when we get a chance, and hide them in the old hangars. We’ll take off from there.”

“And to answer the second question,” Sienna put in, “Dr. Watts here will be expecting a shipment of six assault helicopters that we, ah, liberated from British Columbia. The White Fang force will be loaded in there. Which is why it’s so important to eliminate Beacon’s airpower before the assault begins. If it isn’t, our helicopters will be just large, slow targets.” 

“What about the SAM defenses on the River Barrier?” asked Adam.

“Leave those to me,” Watts answered. “My virus will take care of them as well.”

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, I have to admit this is quite the plan,” Roman said. “There’s just one question: why?”

“Why?” Sienna cocked her head to one said, looking for all the world like an inquisitive cat. 

“I understand my involvement and Neo’s—we plan on so disrupting the Air Force that we can operate with near impunity for awhile. There’s money in that, so our involvement is greed.” _For now,_ he thought. “I understand your motivations, Sienna, and yours, Adam—you want to strike a blow for Faunus everywhere.” He pointed to Watts. “I even get yours, Dr. Watts. You’re the type that enjoys inventing things and watching them work. What I don’t understand, then, is the motivation of your patron. This Salem person.”

“Oh, I know this one,” Watts smiled. “Revenge, dear boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Wedding Party" was also al-Qaeda's codename for the 9/11 attack. "Future Warrior" did exist, but I believe the US Army largely abandoned it to cut costs. (For those of you who are fans of the book of "World War Z," Future Warrior played a detrimental part in the Battle of Yonkers. It doesn't look too good here, either.)


	39. Give Me the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the big dance, but Weiss and Jaune have some damage control to do first. 
> 
> Ozpin decides to attend the dance, and is greeted by Ruby Flight. Blake makes it to the dance, as does Penny...and so does Cinder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Pyrrha and Jaune not getting together until the dance is canon, but meh! I'm an Arkos shipper, and dammit, Pyrrha needs some happiness in her life, even in an AU. And something tells me that Weiss would be a huge Titanic fangirl. Maybe it's the ice...

_Squadron Dispersal A_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_29 April 2001_

Mercury Black climbed down from his F-16, took off the scarf he wore beneath the neck of his flight suit, and used it to mop the sweat from his face. It was another day of 1V1 training at Beacon, and this time it was against Juniper Flight. He had drawn Pyrrha Nikos. Mercury was expecting that—even looked forward to it, as he had been studying her, her background, film, and anything else he could find about the Greek heroine. He saw that she preferred to fight in the vertical, so that was what he prepared for. He had not prepared for a ghastly nine-G fight in the horizontal, what fighter pilots referred to as a knife fight in a phone booth. She had beaten him, which Mercury had also half-expected, though the loss still stung. It could be worse, he reflected. From what he had heard on the radio on the way in, Creamer Flight had given a fair account of itself. True, Emerald Sustrai had lost to Lie Ren, but only because she broke the hard deck after another hard fight. Cinder had “killed” Jaune Arc, though it had taken more effort than any of them had thought; the Frenchman was better than they had been led to believe.

“Woo-hoo! I’m proper chuffed, mate!” Mercury turned and was nearly run over by Ruth Lionheart, still clad in helmet and G-suit.

“What?” Mercury had no idea what she had just said. Ruth Lionheart was proof that the Americans and English were a people separated by a common language. 

“I beat Nora Valkyrie! I caught her in the weeds with my Jaguar! It’s damned jammy, but I’ll take it!”

Mercury suppressed a groan. It _was_ worse. Ruth would be insufferable now. “Congratulations,” he said between gritted teeth.

“You sound gutted, Mercury. Lose to the Great One, did you now?” Ruth shrugged. “No dishonor in that, mate. Anyway, talk at you later.” She literally skipped back to postflight her Jaguar, tail swishing. 

Mercury resisted the urge to plant a size twelve boot right in her Faunus ass, settling instead for taking off his helmet. He turned to begin his own postflight, but was surprised to see Weiss Schnee striding towards him. “Afternoon,” he said. 

“Good afternoon,” she returned the greeting. “I realize you just got back, but I wanted to catch you. In fact, I’ve been trying to catch you for the past few days.”

“Sorry. It’s been busy.”

“I know.” With the dance coming up, the instructors at Beacon seemed to be bent on making sure the students earned their day off. It had been 12-hour days of classroom work and flying. With the investigation of Torchwick’s activities largely over, Ruby Flight had not been exempt from the grueling schedule. “I as well. In any case, Lieutenant Black, I have been considering your offer of going to the dance, and…I accept.”

Mercury brightened, and not just because this was part of Cinder’s plan. “Well! I thought you had forgotten about my offer.”

“Not at all. It’s just been quite busy, as you said.”

He reached up and set his helmet on the canopy rim, then unzipped his G-suit. “Base rumor has it you were going with Jaune Arc.”

“Merely rumors, Lieutenant. Though I consider Jaune a friend, he is no more than that.”

“In that case, I accept.” He took her hand and kissed it lightly. “I saw that on a nickelodeon once, and I’ve always—”

Weiss rolled her eyes. “You’re quoting _Titanic_ to me?”

“Sorry.”

She smiled and blushed a little. “It’s all right. It happens to be my favorite movie.” Mercury fought down the desire to make a crack about icebergs and Ice Queens, though just barely. 

“The least you can do is call me Mercury,” he told her.

“Mercury. Named for the god or the planet?” Weiss asked.

“Neither. My pops was a fan of Queen.” At her quizzical expression, he explained, “Freddie Mercury? Lead singer?”

“I’m afraid I’m not up on my obscure rock bands.”

Mercury let it go, though he was already beginning to think this had been a bad idea after all, Cinder or no Cinder. Weiss Schnee was going to be about as much fun as watching paint dry. “Anyway, would you like me to pick you up or vice-versa?”

“No reason to inconvenience yourself…Mercury. Rather than try to match our schedules, meet me at the officers’ club.”

Despite his misgivings, Mercury couldn’t keep the smirk off his face. “It’s a date…Weiss.”

She blushed again. Many males could not meet her eyes when they said her name, but Mercury seemed to be looking into her soul. It was both alluring and disconcerting at the same time. “See you then.”

Weiss turned away and began walking further down the taxiway into the dispersal area. She wondered if she had made a mistake, but given that she _knew_ she had made one with Jaune Arc, it was at worst the lesser of two evils. 

_And speak of the devil,_ Weiss thought, seeing Juniper Flight climbing out of their aircraft. _Well…a lesser demon, perhaps._ She walked towards the Mirage, only to be cut off by a charging Nora Valkyrie. Nora’s hair was sticking up in odd directions, but she looked furious—and she was heading for Ruth Lionheart’s Jaguar. _Oh dear,_ Weiss said to herself; Nora was going to demolish the Faunus, and Weiss didn’t relish the thought of getting in between someone who practiced mixed martial arts and someone who was essentially a lioness. 

“You!” Nora shouted. “Get out from under that Jag, Lionheart, because I’ve got something to say to you.” Ren saw what was happening and began running in her direction, but he would never make it in time.

Ruth ducked out from under her aircraft, holding what appeared to be a tree branch. “Oh, stone the crows,” she said.

“Yeah, whatever that means,” Nora snapped. “Do you know what I’m going to do to you, lady?”

Ruth shifted her body weight slightly and turned to present a smaller target. “Go on, then.”

“I’m gonna…buy you a beer!” Nora took two steps forward and slapped Ruth so hard on the back that the Faunus girl nearly collapsed. “Holy shit, girl!” Ren slowed to a halt at the huge grin on Nora’s face. “Did you _see_ this crazy little bitch, Ren? No, wait, you were waxing that Spanish chick’s butt. She shot me down! Can you believe that? Me!”

“You seem rather happy about it,” Ren commented.

“Normally I’d be torqued off, but anyone who shoots down an A-10 while _climbing_ deserves a damn medal!” Nora shook her head in wonder. “They waived the hard deck for us, and I’m sitting there like a dumbass waiting to ambush her at about two thousand AGL. She comes in _under_ me. You had to be at, what, about a thousand feet?”

“Oh, heavens no.” Ruth handed her the tree branch. “Got this out of my main landing gear door. I was about five hundred, maybe? I thought I heard something…I must’ve hit this tree.” 

Nora squeezed Ruth so hard the lioness gasped. “This girl, Ren! This girl! She’s crazy as hell!”

“Steady on, mate!” Ruth fought free to get some air. “Well, then. Glad you’re not browned off about the whole thing, Nora.”

“Hell no! Let’s go get a beer.”

“As long as it’s not that American stuff I had the other night—PBR, I think it was?” Ruth made a face and her ears flattened back.

“That stuff is like sex in a canoe,” Nora remarked. When Ruth cocked her head to one side, Nora grinned. “Fucking near water.”

_Oh,_ Weiss thought. _So that’s what Yang meant._

With no imminent brawl between Creamer and Juniper, Weiss went to go find Jaune. She noticed Pyrrha already walking down the line, and that the Greek girl had been looking daggers at her. When she saw Weiss turn her head in her direction, Pyrrha quickly looked away. _Well,_ Weiss told herself, _this should make her feel better…unless Jaune is a complete fool._

“Hello, Jaune.”

Jaune had been signing his Form One for his crew chief, noting that the postflight was finished and nothing was wrong with the aircraft. “Oh, hello, Weiss.”

Weiss was going to be direct with him, but suddenly found herself unable to say it. “Ah…how was the fight?”

Jaune laughed. “You know, considering how outmatched I was, I did all right. I kept Captain Fall tied up for about three minutes before she finally got me in a snapshot gun pass.” Weiss was pleasantly surprised: most air combats were decided in thirty seconds or less. For Jaune to wrap up Cinder Fall and her F-15 for three minutes was no small accomplishment. Though technically Jaune was still “dead,” it was far better than he would have done two weeks prior. He was a fast learner, and Weiss found herself oddly proud of him.

_Good. At least this will be easier on him._ “Jaune, I…” _Dammit, Weiss! Tell him! What’s wrong with you? You’re not even attracted to him…are you?_

“Weiss, is this about the dance?”

“Er…yes.”

Jaune smiled, a little sadly. “You’re going to tell me you made a mistake, that you only agreed to go with me because I caught you at a bad time, and you really want to go with someone else.” 

Weiss shared his wan smile. “When you put it like that, I feel like a real asshole.” That made him laugh again. Weiss rarely cursed, or at least not in other people’s presence. “But yes. It’s not because you’re…unattractive, or anything…”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. But…” Jaune stumbled a bit over his words. “Honestly, Weiss—not to hurt your feelings or anything, because I’d never do that, but—”

“You don’t want to go to the dance with me either,” Weiss finished. “You’d rather go with Pyrrha.”

“Now _I_ feel like an asshole.” Jaune was scratching the back of his head, a nervous tic Weiss had noticed he did when he thought he had screwed up.

“Jaune, that’s the main reason why I’m turning you down. To be honest, you’ve become much less annoying than you used to be, but you’re not really my type. You are, however, Pyrrha’s.” Weiss did not feel like mentioning that Pyrrha’s type seemed to be broken things, that she could then repair—though if Jaune’s growing skill was any indication, the Greek girl was rather good at repairing. She put out a hand. “Friends?”

“Sure.” He took her hand and shook it once. “Whew…glad that’s over with. I’ve been sweating that for a week.”

“You need to be more assertive. And it’s not over yet.” She got behind him and pushed. “Pyrrha is down the way there. Go ask her or I’ll throw you down the intake of my Typhoon.”

“Roger that!” He threw her a salute and dashed down the taxiway. Weiss watched him go, and once more wondered if she had made a mistake. 

“Pyrrha!”

Pyrrha turned at the sound of her name. “Hello again,” she smiled. It was not really a genuine one, though it was more from exhaustion than any hatred of Jaune—though there was a touch of self-loathing there. She realized she had been jealous of Weiss Schnee, and there was absolutely no reason for that, just as there was no reason to be upset that no one had asked her to the dance. Pyrrha knew why. They saw her as an unattainable goal, or worse, just another scalp to put on their belts. They were either terrified of the Invincible Girl or they were after her for her body, not Pyrrha the person. “What did Weiss want?” To her shame, Pyrrha couldn’t keep the anger out of her voice.

“To inform me that we had both made a big mistake.” Jaune didn’t know what else to do, so he got down on one knee. Pyrrha’s eyes rounded and she dropped her helmet on the concrete, hands going to her mouth. “Pyrrha, would you go with me to the dance?”

“To the dance?” She blew out her breath. “Oh, thank goodness.” 

“Huh?”

Pyrrha drew Jaune back up to his feet. “You looked like you were going to propose to me.”

“I was, I was proposing…oh.” The light came on for Jaune Arc. He turned as red as Pyrrha’s hair. “Uh, no, just the dance. I mean, you’re great, but…”

“Yes, that would be quite sudden.” She took his hands in hers. “I accept, Jaune. To the dance,” she hurriedly added. “To the dance.”

“Well, gor blimey and kick the cats,” Ruth commented at the pastiche of Jaune and Pyrrha. “That’s a right heartwarming sight, so it is.”

“Indeed it is,” Ren said, putting an arm around Nora. “All’s right with the world.”

_Building 111715 (Officers’ Club)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_30 April 2001_

“Good evening, Captain,” Velvet Scarlatina said, then her eyes widened and she snapped to attention. “Captain Ozpin, sir!” 

“As you were, Flying Officer.” Ozpin waved her down. “I take it you are the official greeter?” He motioned to an open book.

“Yes, sir. It was recommended by Captain Fall that everyone sign in. That way if the party gets, well, out of hand…” Her cheeks burned at the memory of the night of the party, which she didn’t remember that well, except where she had woken up in the arms of Scarlet David. Both had still been dressed, but Velvet still wasn’t sure who had been embarassed more.

“Good idea,” Glynda Goodwitch said, and signed her name in the book. Ozpin did the same—though he only signed one name. The two entered the dining room. She smiled mischieviously at Ozpin. “I do so love watching everyone pop to when they see that itty bitty medal.” She nodded at the Medal of Honor around Ozpin’s neck. It was actually far from a small medal, and it immediately drew the attention of everyone who saw it. By tradition, everyone from the youngest private to the oldest general had to acknowledge the Medal of Honor and whoever wore it. As a formal occasion, Ozpin wore his dress whites, with full ribbons. To say it was impressive was an understatement. Goodwitch wore the formal “mess dress” blue uniform of the USAF, though she did not have as many ribbons or medals as Ozpin, she still carried more than the usual amount for a Lieutenant Colonel. 

The formal officers’ club dining room had been converted slightly. Tables and chairs had been moved to line the walls, clearing the hardwood floors for a dance floor. The base band played classical music from the dais, but huge speakers and a DJ booth promised something a little less formal later. 

“I see that Peter is dressed for the occasion,” Ozpin noted. Port wore an RAF dress uniform with more gold braid and aguillettes than anyone in the room. 

“I see that Bartholomew isn’t,” Goodwitch remarked. The two men were speaking to each other, but while Port looked every inch the decorated British war veteran he was, Oobleck’s only nod to the formal occasion was that his shirt was tucked in and his tie was knotted. 

“Barty will never change,” Ozpin snickered. They passed the punch bowl. “Good evening, Lieutenant Rose. Are you alone tonight? I’m surprised.”

Ruby was dressed in the same uniform as Goodwitch, but only had a paltry three medals. The outfit had cost Ruby a considerable amount, but it did look good; she was very glad that the dress was nearly floor length. Ruby believed that her legs were a bit too skinny. “Hi, Captain—“ Her silver eyes went as big as dinner plates at the sight of the Medal of Honor. “Sir!” She snapped to attention so fast that she nearly slipped. 

Ozpin caught her with a hand. “Careful!”

“Sorry, sir. It’s these dumb heels. I feel like I’m walking on stilts.”

He laughed. “I’m not surprised you would find them uncomfortable, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir,” Ruby said miserably. She stared at the medal. “Captain Ozpin? This is going to sound really weird, but…may I touch that?”

“Certainly,” Ozpin said. It was actually not that unusual of a request. Ruby reached out and cradled the medal in her hands. It was bronze, gold, and heavy. “Wow,” she breathed. “How did you win this, sir?”

“He earned it,” Goodwitch corrected. She pointed at Ozpin. “This man shot down five Nevermores headed for the USS _Enterprise_ during the European War. By himself. In a F-8.”

“ _Wooow_ ,” Ruby repeated. “I’d love to hear the story someday.”

“Someday, Lieutenant. Someday.” Ozpin turned as Yang Xiao Long arrived. Yang had one more ribbon than Ruby, and certainly filled out the USAF dress blues. “Hi, Rubes. Hey, Colonel. Hi, Captain,” Yang greeted them. Then she saw the medal and crashed to attention, albeit with more grace than Ruby did. “Holy shit!”

“Excuse me?” Goodwitch snapped.

“Ma’am! I meant, holy shit, _sir!”_

This time, Ozpin nearly doubled over with laughter, and even Goodwitch could not help a grin. Once Ozpin got his breath back, he raised his hands in surrender. “As you were, Captain, as you were.” 

“Terrorizing the young folk?” James Ironwood walked up to them. His US Army dress uniform was a darker blue than the USAF version, and his three stars glittered in the light. He too came to attention briefly when he met Ozpin, but without surprise. He nodded at Ruby and Yang. “Ladies, good evening.”

“Good evening, sir,” both replied.

“Captain Ozpin, with your permission, I would like to ask this lovely lady to dance.” He bowed to Goodwitch, who turned bright red. “Come on, Glynda. Norway wasn’t that long ago.”

She stiffened, but after a moment of hesitation, sighed. “Oh, why the hell not.” She took Ironwood’s arm and allowed herself to be led onto the dance floor.

Ozpin returned his attention to Ruby and Yang. “Captain Long, did you come with a date?”

“No, sir. I’m stag as well.” She shrugged. “I was just busy as hell, sir. Never did get a chance.”

“Understandable. Well, you can relax tonight.”

“I intend to, sir.” She pointed to the Medal. “Captain, could I…well…”

Ozpin smiled. “By all means, Captain.”

Sun Wukong struggled with his tie, which had come unraveled. “Damn neck trap!” he shouted in Chinese.

“I don’t speak Chinese, but I’m assuming you’re having trouble?” 

Sun turned around and missed a breath. Blake Belladonna did wonders to the Marine dress uniform: a very dark blue outfit, with a white shirt and red cummerbund. Sun was a bit sad to see that the dress was floor-length, which hid Blake’s rather toned and attractive legs. “Hallelujah,” he said in English.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” She reached up and adjusted his tie, getting it straight. “No wonder you always go shirtless.”

“Hey, I’m from Hainan. Not exactly cold there.” He held out his arm, and she took it. “So does this mean we’re going together?”

“For now.” She gave him a winning smile. “Though my first dance is spoken for.”

Sun smacked his fist into his palm. “Really? Because I’ll fight them for the honor.”

“You’re going to fight Yang?”

Sun thought about it for a moment. “No…she fights dirty.”

Weiss Schnee joined them at the punch bowl. “Is this the rendezvous for Ruby Flight?” She stood to attention. “Captain Ozpin.” 

He nodded to her. “Good evening, Oberleutnant. A shame your sister won’t be joining us tonight.”

“Do you know why Major Oum requested her, sir?”

Ozpin shook his head. “I’m afraid not, but she will be back day after tomorrow.” He saw with amusement that Weiss was looking everywhere but at his Medal of Honor.

Ruby came to her rescue. “So that’s the Luftwaffe mess dress. Looks good.”

“You look like a Kraut from World War II,” Yang put in.

Weiss rolled her eyes. “The uniform cut and rank styling is very close to the wartime Luftwaffe uniform. And given that I _am_ a Kraut…” She turned towards the entrance. “Well, well. Mission accomplished, Yang.”

“Told you she’d be here.” Yang winked at them and began walking towards Blake and Sun.

“Where’s your date?” Ruby asked Weiss.

“Right there.” She spotted Mercury Black, who walked in alongside Emerald Sustrai and Cinder Fall. He waved to her. Weiss waved back, patted Ruby’s shoulder, and moved off to meet her date.

“Now that everyone’s gone,” Ruby remarked to no one in particular, “maybe I can take off these stupid shoes.”

Ozpin raised an eyebrow. “Not enjoying yourself?”

“With respect, sir…hell no. I’m just not much of a dancey girl.”

“That surprises me, Lieutenant.” At Ruby’s shocked expression, Ozpin continued. “Fighting and dancing aren’t terribly different. There are maneuvers, spins, and occasionally violent disengaging breaks and midair collisions. And it’s certainly 1V1.”

“I think if I tried to do a split-S in these shoes, I’d really hurt myself,” Ruby grumped.

“Salutations!”

Ruby turned and was nearly crushed to death in a Penny Polendina hug. To their surprise, she was also dressed in a USAF mess dress, though without medals. “Penny…ergh…” Ruby struggled out, and Penny let her go. The other girl clearly did not know her own enhanced strength. 

“Hello there, Miss Polendina,” Ozpin greeted her. “I am surprised to see you here.”

“Good evening, Captain Ozpin,” Penny returned. “General Ironwood thought it would be good for me to socialize.” She plucked at the uniform. “This was his idea. He didn’t want me to stand out. Technically I am a 1st Lieutenant, but it is honorary only.” She looked a little downcast at that.

“For now,” Ozpin reassured her. 

Ruby tried to surreptitiously point to Ozpin’s Medal of Honor, but Penny did not remotely notice. “Ruby, may I ask you a question that you may find offensive?”

“Sure, I guess.” Ruby gave up. In any case, Ozpin seemed amused rather than offended at Penny’s cluelessness. 

“May I dance with you? We are both females, but I of course did not have a date to this dance.”

“Not offended at all, Penny,” Ruby grinned. “I’ll warn you that I’m a lousy dancer, especially in these lady stilts.”

“I too am a poor dancer, so we shall be poor dancers together.” She led Ruby out on the dance floor. Ruby shrugged at Ozpin, who once more shook his head, this time with a smile, remembering better times.

“Youth is wasted on the young,” he sighed, “and wisdom on the old.”

Mercury excused himself from Weiss on the dance floor, and went over to the table, where a heroic amount of champagne glasses were arrayed next to an open bar. Evidently, Ozpin was trusting his pilots not to get too out of hand and ruin their dress uniforms. Mercury picked up two glasses, standing next to Cinder, who was getting a beer. “What time do you plan on leaving?” he whispered.

“As soon as I finish this,” she replied quietly. “You know what to do?”

“Looking forward to it,” he smiled.

“Good. If anyone asks, I went to…powder my nose.”

“Make sure you’re home by midnight so you don’t turn into a pumpkin,” Mercury said, and went back to Weiss. Cinder’s hand tightened around the beer bottle so much it cracked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Medal of Honor does merit that kind of attention. By Federal law, any holder of the Medal is saluted first, no matter the rank of the recipient.


	40. Dancing in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the dance continues, Cinder's plan is put into motion. Now it just requires someone in Ruby Flight to lose their temper.
> 
> Ruby might have other ideas, however.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second half of the big dance chapter. Sorry, no Jaune in a dress (pretty sure he'd be court-martialed for that in this AU). but JNPR does end up doing a dance. And I won't apologize for it. Muahahahaha! (Hey, that was the big song in 2001! Well, 1999.)
> 
> All kinds of romance to go along with the Cinder/Ruby action scene-we've got some Renora, some Black Sun, some Arkos, and whatever the heck Ruth and Neptune would be (Wet Cat? Water Lion?).

Ironwood excused himself, and fought down a smile at leaving a flustered Glynda Goodwitch behind him. He stepped out the side door into the cool night air, took a cell phone from his pocket, and dialed a number with one hand. To his surprise, it rang four times before it picked up. “Winter Schnee.”

“Evening, Winter. How are you?”

“Oh! General Ironwood, sir. I apologize—I did not recognize the number.”

“I’m using my personal phone. I take it you got to Signal just fine.”

“I did, thank you.”

Ironwood’s eyebrows beetled together. “You sound out of breath. Are you all right?”

“Just finished a workout.” He thought he heard a slapping noise in the background, then silence. “I talked with Major Branwen. He reports no uptick in GRIMM deeper in the Dead Zones.” She paused. “And General, with respect, I have never met such a loutish, idiotic, self-centered, drunken…doofus in my thirty-five years on this planet.”

Ironwood stifled a laugh. “Qrow grows on you.”

“Like bacteria, perhaps.”

Ironwood grew serious again. “What about the…thing…with the Schnee Company?”

There was the briefest of hesitations. “Nothing yet. I have to be quite delicate about it.”

“Of course.” Ironwood thought he heard a male voice in the background and frantic whispering from Winter. “It sounds like you’re busy, Winter, so I will let you go. I’ve got a dance to get back to myself.”

“Certainly, sir. Would you mind keeping an eye on my sister, General?”

“I will do that, Winter. Good night.” He hung up as he heard her sign off. 

Ozpin could not explain to Goodwitch later why he had heard General James Ironwood laughing his head off.

Ruby found herself back at the punch bowl, but was glad of the refreshment. Sweat dripped off her brow and ruined her hair, and her feet were killing her. She grabbed a cupful of punch and limped over to a chair, next to her sister, who looked supremely self-satisfied. The smug look disappeared at Ruby’s pained expression. “You okay, Rubes?”

“No. I want to know what demented son of a bitch invented high heels.”

“Weiss would know.” Yang took a pull from her beer. “I saw you dancing with Penny.”

“How bad were we?”

“Do you want honesty?” Ruby nodded, and Yang winced. “Well, you had better coordination at your 2nd grade dance.”

“I accidentally broke Yamanu Shinigami’s big toe and barfed on Fyodor Molotov’s shoes at my 2nd grade dance.”

“My point exactly.”

Ruby took a shot of punch. “Well, at least Penny’s coordinated enough that I didn’t break anything. Not sure why she broke out the robot halfway through when they started playing Mozart.”

“That was the best part,” Yang said. The sisters looked at each other, then giggled. For a moment, they were little again. “You know, I think we really needed this.”

The band swung into Shostakovich’s _Second Waltz_ , which was slightly more uptempo from their previous piece, Strauss’ _Blue Danube._ Ruby and Yang watched Sun and Blake spin around the floor; evidently Sun had taken some lessons in ballroom dancing, and despite the long dress, the Faunus girl glided across the hardwood. Ren and Nora weren’t far behind them, and though Ren was clearly the superior dancer, Nora was holding her own. 

“Tomorrow it’s back to work,” Yang sighed. 

“Let’s not worry about it.” Ruby finished her punch. “We can handle anything they throw at us—well, dip me in glaze and call me a donut!”

“You been hanging around with Ruth Lionheart—“ Then Yang saw who Ruby was pointing at. “How do you like that, sports fans?” 

Jaune Arc and Pyrrha Nikos had joined the dancing.

As they began dancing, Pyrrha fingered Jaune’s uniform. “I like this. Very World War I, knights in the air and all that.”

“Thanks. Yours is…”

“World War II?” Pyrrha laughed. “Well, there’s something to be said for tradition.” 

They waltzed into the center of the ballroom, though neither really noticed. Jaune’s right hand rested lightly at the small of her back, his left in hers. Though not strictly regulation, Pyrrha had done up her red hair with a gold circlet. Jaune also couldn’t help but notice the number of ribbons and medals on her left breast. She saw him staring, and smiled. “I’m glad you like them, Jaune.”

He turned beet red. “No! I was just…medals! You have a lot of them!”

“Not so loud. Yes, I know. And I know what you were looking at. Just kidding you.” Pyrrha felt particularly happy this night, and a little mischievious. Nothing too naughty, but just enough to tease Jaune. “You know, technically no one asked me to the dance until you did yesterday. I think, perhaps, that means you lost your bet?”

“Huh?” Jaune responded.

“You should’ve worn a dress.” She motioned at Blake. “Not hers, though. It would hide your legs.”

Jaune laughed. She liked to hear him laugh. “I don’t think I could’ve pulled off a dress.”

“Don’t put yourself down. I bet you would’ve looked great in one.” Pyrrha was surprised when Jaune spun her, though she easily compensated. “My! You’re an excellent dancer, Jaune.”

“These things tend to happen when you grow up with seven sisters. You’re not so bad yourself.”

“I’m Greek. It’s in the blood.” He dipped Pyrrha, her ponytail touching the floor, then brought her back up to him. They ended up close to each other. Suddenly, it was all Pyrrha could do not to crush herself against those handsome lips. It had suddenly become too intimate. Heart thudding, she drew back, and could see that Jaune had been afflicted in the same fashion.

Nora walked up to them as the band halted for a break. “Get a room, you two.” She winked as both of them blushed. “No, really, you should.” 

“Nora!” Pyrrha exclaimed. 

“Behave,” Ren admonished her. Nora stuck out her tongue, and an unholy light dawned in her eyes. “Hmm!” she said, eyeing Ren up and down. “Ren! This. Is. Happening!”

“Wait. _What_ is happening?” he asked, but Nora was already heading towards the newly-arrived DJ. She leaned over and whispered something to the DJ, who grinned and nodded. Nora skipped back to the rest of Juniper Flight. “Jaune, Pyrrha,” she said, “did you know Renny here is a professionally trained dancer?” Before Ren could answer, Nora nodded. “Yep! He studied dance while at the academy, and he’s very good. And do you know what his favorite dance is?”

“You didn’t. You wouldn’t,” Ren groaned, covering his eyes. The first chords of _Macarena_ sounded through the club, bringing both cheers and jeers. Nora took up the opening stance, and Ren, with a mighty sigh, joined her. Jaune tried to leave, having flashbacks of his sisters, but Pyrrha, laughing, grabbed him and forced him to join his flight.

“Oh. My. _God._ ” Yang stared popeyed at the sight of Juniper Flight doing the Macarena. Then Blake and Sun joined them. Yang finished her beer, set down the bottle, and got to her feet. “Well, what the eff. C’mon, Rubes.”

“Like hell. I’ll die in these shoes.” Ruby stood up, but she headed for the side entrance, praying that Penny didn’t see her. Being forced to do the Macarena by a physically-enhanced clone sounded like something out of a very bad science-fiction movie. “I’ll get some air.”

“Suit yourself.” Yang began dancing her way down the chairs, yanked a screaming Weiss up from her seat, and dragged her onto the dance floor. 

Emerald was giggling so hard that her sides hurt. “What’s going on?” Cinder’s voice rasped in her ear. She reached up and touched the earpiece, as if she was scratching her ear.

“They’re doing the Macarena.”

“What a shame I’m not there,” Cinder replied, heavy with sarcasm. “How long do I have?”

“I’d say about thirty minutes.”

“Roger that. Tell Mercury to do his thing.”

A block away in the small park off the quad, Cinder hid herself behind the same row of hedges Ruby had a week before, though she was unaware of that fact. She stripped off her clothes, down to her underwear, and turned the uniform inside out. The interior was black, and lined with a thin layer of ballistic cloth. It would not stop a bullet, but it would slow one down. She removed the heels from her shoes, leaving her with a low-heeled pair, and turned her gloves inside out, putting them on as socks. Finally, she unfolded the short tie that came with the female mess dress into a scarf, and tightened her hair into a bun. It left only her eyes uncovered. 

The building housing the base computers was only two blocks away. Beacon was deserted: most of the base officers were at the dance, and the enlisted men and women were enjoying a night off. She easily made her way through the shadows to the front entrance. It was locked, but Cinder took off her ankle bracelet, twisted it, and ended up with a pair of lockpicks. She went to work on the lock, which to her surprise had not been an electronic one. 

Without warning, the door clicked open. Cinder couldn’t be sure who was more surprised: her or the air policeman that stood there, hand on the doorknob, a question dying on his lips. Cinder, however, reacted faster. She grabbed the policeman by the ears and brought him headfirst into her upraised knee. There was the crack of a broken nose, and the man dropped like a stone. Cinder bent over and punched the guard to make sure, but he was unconscious.

There were no patrols outside, but Cinder decided not to chance it: Emerald had reported one guard on the inside, but the USAF typically paired up their air policemen. She dragged the man outside, rolled him off the steps into a bush, grabbed his radio and tonfa club, and closed the door silently behind her. 

Ruby had intended to just go outside for a breath of fresh, if cold air, but another near disaster with her heels made her decide enough was enough: she would go back to the dorm, get more sensible footwear, and come back—and hang the dress regulations. Ozpin would understand; any further time in the heels would be risking her life.

Stripping the heels off, Ruby began walking in her stockinged feet back to the dorm. She decided to cut through the park, get across Arryn Avenue (she would need her heels for that, unfortunately), then go across the quad. 

Ruby was not sure if she just had unusually sharp peripheral vision, or it had something to do with having silver eyes, but either way, she caught movement. She turned in that direction, but it was just a shadow. “What the hell?” she whispered. Curious, she followed, but she had to pick her way through the park. She followed what she thought was the shadow’s path, and came to the computer building. There was nothing there in the slight glow of the streetlights. 

She was about to write it off to an overactive imagination when she saw the body. 

Ruby ran over to the air policeman, lying face down behind a bush; she had seen his legs sticking out. She reached up and with effort, turned him over, and felt for a pulse. It was there: despite the blood that had made a mess of the policeman’s shirt, he was still alive. Ruby thought about slapping him awake, but then thought he might have a concussion, which she didn’t want to make worse. She knew she should probably run back to the officers’ club for help, but the blood was still fresh; whoever did this, Ruby thought, was still in the area.

The blood trail led back to the door. Ruby made a quick decision. She snatched the ring of keys off the guard’s belt and took a step towards the door, then reached back, and unholstered the policeman’s pistol. 

The computer room was actually two levels down, reached by elevator, inside a vault that was hardened against electromagnetic pulse. It was also reinforced to survive a direct bomb hit on the building itself. The designers, however, had not anticipated someone would simply sneak into the place. Neither had the air policewoman on duty. She lay crumpled against the wall, with a broken arm and a severe concussion, thanks to the tonfa club and a convienent steel wall for Cinder to ram the policewoman’s head into. 

The vault did have an electronic lock, one operated by a passcard—the same one the policewoman had around her neck. The door opened with a click, and Cinder was in. The interior was kept cool, with banks of a server farm and scattered workstations. She reached into her dress and pulled out the small disk case that had been attached to her thigh, picked a workstation and opened the CD tray. 

Much to Nora’s disappointment, the Macarena had come to an end, and after a round of applause for Juniper Flight, the DJ moved on to Intermission’s _Piece of My Heart_ and LA Style’s _James Brown is Dead._ At another suggestion from Nora, the DJ—an off-duty airman who was wondering if Lieutenant Valkyrie was going to get him court-martialed—put on Color Me Badd’s _I Wanna Sex You Up._ Pyrrha was not about to go that far, so she dragged Jaune off the dance floor towards the punch bowl. Sun, disappointed, followed Blake off the floor, but there were plenty of others who took their place. Ren frantically looked around, but there was no escape: Nora fastened herself on him like a lamprey.

Goodwitch stood up from where she shared a table with Ozpin and Ironwood: she could tolerate some good dance music to liven up an otherwise somewhat boring formal dine-in, but this was a song too far; it was practically an invitation for sex. Ozpin, however, put a hand on her wrist and shook his head. “They’re young,” he said to her over the music. “Let them have a little fun.” 

Ironwood stood, and for a terrifying moment, Goodwitch thought he was about to ask her to the dance floor. To her immense relief, however, he grinned at Ozpin. “I think that’s my cue to leave. See you both in the morning.”

Across the dance floor, where she leaned against the champagne table, Emerald saw Ironwood heading for the main entrance. There was only static in her earpiece, but they had expected to lose contact with Cinder. She glanced at the clock: twenty minutes had passed. She turned so that she was hidden from everyone else. “Mercury,” she said into the mike pickup, “whatever in the hell you’re going to do, do it now. Ironwood’s leaving and Cinder needs more time.”

Mercury did not respond. He and Weiss had been hanging around the periphery of the dance floor, waiting for something a little less sexual to dance to. He reached out, took Weiss’ hand, and pulled her with him onto the floor. “ _Was?”_ she remarked, too surprised to say it in English. Mercury twirled her around, then drew her very close to him, grinding his crotch against hers.

Weiss turned red, more in shock than anything else. Mercury Black had been a gentleman, keeping her the requisite distance that her dancing coach had taught her for a young man to keep from a young lady, and now he was doing everything but throwing her down and having his way with her. Weiss liked bad boys now and then, but this was way too much. When she felt his hands grab her rear end and squeeze, her right hand rocketed up and hit him across the jaw. He reeled with the slap. The sound of it was like a rifle shot: dancers instantly froze in place, and the DJ wisely hit pause.

“What the hell?” Mercury shouted indignantly.

“This dance is over,” Weiss snarled. “That is _not_ how you treat a lady, much less an officer.”

“Oh, shut up!” he yelled. “You wanted it, Weiss! You practically had your tongue in my ear over there!” He rubbed his face, where there was a distinct print of Weiss’ hand.

If Weiss’ face could get any deeper of a red, no one knew, just as no one knew if Weiss turned that color out of embarassment or rage. “That is a damned lie!” 

“It’s not and you know it, Schnee!”

Ironwood had turned at the sound of the slap, and he began making his way towards the dance floor. Ozpin and Goodwitch had stood, but Yang got to Weiss’ side before anyone. She put a hand on Mercury’s chest. “You back off, buddy. She said no.”

Mercury looked between them. “Oh, I see what’s going on here.” He leered. “Don’t ask, don’t tell, huh? So which one of you is the guy when you fuck, Yang? Or is it your little whore sister—“

Yang grabbed a double handful of Mercury’s dress jacket. “The next word out of your mouth better be sandwich, you cocksucker, because you’re going to be _eating_ it!” He only grinned at her, and Yang’s temper blew. With her left hand still holding onto Mercury’s jacket, she drew back her right hand in a fist.

There was a flurry of motion: Weiss grabbed Yang’s hand, Ren grabbed her by the waist, and Emerald charged forward to pull Mercury away. She whipped him around and shoved Mercury to the ground, and then Ironwood was there. With one hand, he hauled Mercury to his feet. “You are in considerable deep shit,” he growled at the lieutenant. “Glynda, if you wouldn’t mind calling the MPs, I think this young man needs to cool his ardor in the stockade.”

“My pleasure,” Goodwitch snarled. Ironwood grabbed the back of Mercury’s jacket and dragged him towards the entrance; Mercury, wisely, did not resist. Weiss and Ren felt Yang relax and let her go, and Emerald walked over to her. “I’m sorry,” she said to Yang. “I don’t know what got into him.”

“I didn’t do any of that,” Weiss insisted. “He just grabbed me all of a sudden.”

“Oh, I know,” Emerald agreed. “I was watching you two. I dunno…Mercury’s not like that. He wasn’t drinking, was he?” Weiss shook his head.

“I don’t care if he was stone cold sober or not,” Yang hissed. “He says anything like that about Weiss or my sister again, and I’ll kill the motherfucker.” She took a breath, trying to calm down. “Let me get some air. Anybody seen Ruby?”

“I’ll come with you,” Emerald said sympathetically. “I’m so sorry.” Inwardly, Emerald smiled. The incident couldn’t have gone any better.

Cinder checked the computer, and typed in a last command. The virus had been uploaded. For the briefest moment, a black queen chesspiece flickered on the screen, then it went blank. Satisfied, she took the CD out of the computer, used the tonfa to break it into pieces, and put them into a garbage can, shoving various printouts and styrofoam coffee cups on top of it. She left the radio where it was, and headed for the elevator. Cinder checked her watch: it had been over twenty minutes. She stood over the body of the fallen policewoman for a moment, then reached down and grabbed the pistol. Someone might have noticed the body by now, and though she did not want to fight her way out, it was a possibility. In the last extreme, Cinder decided, she would use the pistol on herself. She could not be taken alive.

She took the elevator up two floors, where it opened with a ding. To her relief, the hallway was still dark and empty. She would dash out the fire door, which would set off the alarm as a further distraction, then change back into her uniform in the park. 

“Hey, is anyone there?” 

Ruby Rose had a very distinctive voice; Cinder recognized it instantly. In the light of the streetlamp she saw that Ruby had a weapon. At the same time, Ruby saw her, though even with her eyesight, she only saw a feminine shadow. “Who the hell—“

Cinder opened fire. She fired wildly, interested more in keeping Ruby’s head down than trying to kill her. Ruby ducked behind a corner, leaned out for a quick glance, then fired two shots back. One bullet shattered a glass door, another missed Cinder’s head by inches. Cinder emptied the pistol as she retreated down the hallway, tossed the gun in Ruby’s general direction, and went out the fire door. Ruby whirled out from behind the corner, leveled the pistol, but winced as the fire alarm went off. There was a glimpse of her target, but she held her fire, not wanting to fire unless she was absolutely sure of what she was firing at.

Ruby jogged forward, keeping the pistol raised, and flattened herself against the doorjamb. With one hand, she eased the door open with the panic bar, then pointed the pistol, keeping most of her body behind the door. The parking lot behind the building was empty. 

The front door down the hall burst open. “Hands in the air!” shouted an air policeman. “Drop the weapon and get down on the floor!” Behind him muscled in another AP, this one in body armor and with an assault rifle.

Ruby turned around slowly, hands up, and let the pistol clatter to the floor. She gently went down to her knees, then lay spreadeagled on the cold tile floor as the policemen ran to her and dragged her hands into cuffs.

_I knew tonight was going to suck,_ she thought.

“So…” Ruth Lionheart said to Neptune Vasillas, “you ever been with a Faunus gel before?”

“Can’t…can’t say as I have,” he stammered. They had gone to the dance, but when Ruth had tried to drag him onto the dance floor, he had finally confessed it to her: he had no idea how to dance. Ruth had shrugged, and instead they spent the night talking at one of the tables. She had downed one too many glasses of champagne, and she suggested a walk in the park to clear her head; Neptune, unwisely, had agreed. 

And now he found himself with a very amorous Faunus lioness on his hands. Or more properly, under them. 

They were under a tree, very secluded, and Neptune was not naïve—he knew what Ruth had planned. He was more than willing to go along with it; after too many drinks of his own, he had once admitted to Sun that he always wondered what Faunus girls were like. Now he was wondering if he had made a mistake. Or if she was trying to kiss him or devour him.

“What’s that noise?” he asked for the second time. By the time they had reached the tree, a fire alarm had gone off somewhere.

“Who cares?” She fumbled with the buttons on his dress whites, got enough of them off, and ran her claws gently over his well-sculpted chest. They were not Sun abs, but they weren’t bad at all. “Oh, basin of gravy.”

“Uh, Ruth…”

“Don’t see your paws moving.” Hers were, and heading into his underwear.

“Oh, the hell with it,” Neptune gave up. Her jacket landed on his shirt, and their caps followed. She took hold of her shirt and was about to show Neptune her bounties when they both heard the sound of someone being very sick. Much to his dismay, Ruth let go of her shirt and went to go look. “What the—Cindah?”

Neptune came over, and was shocked to see Major Cinder Fall, her uniform on but her jacket off, and her shirt unbuttoned to reveal a black, lacy bra. That was less an issue than the fact that she looked terrible, gagging over a pile of vomit. Cinder glanced up to them. “Ruth?”

“Cinder, what happened?”

“Don’t know…think I ate something at the party. I came back here to get some air, and just started throwing up. I’m not feeling well at all.”

“You don’t look too brilliant either,” Ruth said. She snatched up Cinder’s jacket and put it around her flight leader’s shoulders. “Don’t just stand there staring at her tits, you bloody fool!” Ruth yelled at Neptune. “Find a medico!”

“Right, right,” Neptune said, inwardly cursing at his horrible luck. He grabbed at his shirt and began putting it on, running back towards the officers’ club. 

“Can’t believe he was staring at your jubblies,” Ruth growled. “What do you have that I don’t?”

Cinder spit vomitus from her lips. She had been in the middle of changing back into her uniform when she spotted Ruth and Neptune coming into the park, and thought of a perfect alibi. It required sticking her finger down her throat and regurgitating her dinner, but now two people would vouch for her. “Nothing,” Cinder smiled at Ruth. “I just have more of them.” Her smile widened at the Faunus’ scowl.

All in all, it had been a very good night, Cinder thought.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of feel like I need to apologize for Yang's language here, but she's angry, and Yang strikes me as the "every other word" type of person when she's upset.


	41. Pomp and Circumstance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the dance, Mercury Black is in for it, and Ozpin has some surprises for Ruby, Yang and especially Blake.
> 
> And let's not forget the new addition to Ruby Flight.

_Building 71414 (Base Headquarters, JRB Beacon)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_1 May 2001_

Ozpin leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in front of him. “Perhaps you’d like to explain yourself, Lieutenant Black.”

Mercury Black looked from Ozpin to the other two people in the room—Glynda Goodwitch and James Ironwood. The latter reminded Mercury of his father, and Mercury hated his father. He vowed to himself that he would one day see everyone in the room dead, but for now, he had to maintain the masquerade. “I have no excuse, Captain. I had too much to drink, misinterpreted signals from Oberleutnant Schnee, and frankly, sir, I screwed up.”

“You certainly did. You realize that you could be facing a court-martial for what you did. What you did to Oberleutnant Schnee could be considered sexual assault, and you certainly insulted three other fellow officers with appaling language.” Mercury said nothing; he remained at attention. Ozpin sighed. “Nonetheless, Oberleutnant Schnee has informed me that she does not intend to press charges, and prefers to put this incident behind her. So we will try non-judicial punishment. Do you concur, Colonel Goodwitch? General Ironwood?”

Goodwitch gave a short, angry nod. Ironwood considered the young man before him. There was something in Mercury’s eyes he did not like. “That depends on the nature of the punishment,” he said.

“Confined to quarters for thirty days except to eat, restricted to the base for sixty days, forfeiture of pay for two weeks, and a letter of reprimand on Lieutenant Black’s permanent record. He will still be allowed to fly and participate in Vytal Flag activities, as it would be otherwise detrimental to his flight, and punish Captain Fall, Captain Sustrai, and Flying Officer Lionheart for something they had nothing to do with. He will also be permanently barred from the officers’ club.” 

“Very well, Captain. That satisfies me.” Ironwood knew that a letter of reprimand would kill Mercury’s career; barring an action of extraordinary heroism, he would never be promoted, and would likely be eased out of the military altogether within a few years. 

“Do you accept this punishment?” Ozpin asked. “Or would you like to proceed to a general court martial?” 

“I accept the punishment, sir—no court martial necessary. And I apologize for my actions.” Inwardly, Mercury wanted to laugh. He supposed if he really was a lieutenant in the USAF, it would be devastating, but since he wasn’t, Ozpin’s actions were little more than an inconvienence at worst. If Cinder’s plan worked, Beacon wouldn’t be standing in sixty days.

“See that you apologize to Oberleutnant Schnee and Captain Long instead. Personally. If no one has anything to add…” No one did. “Very well, then. These proceedings are closed. You are dismissed, Lieutenant.” Mercury came to attention, did an impressively sharp about-face, and stiffly left the office.

He was surprised to see Ruby Rose standing outside, waiting. She pushed off the wall. “I think they’re ready for you, Lieutenant.”

“Thanks,” Ruby said guardedly. Yang had told her what Mercury had called her.

“Hey, what I said in the club…” Mercury shrugged. “I didn’t mean it. Just lost my head. I’m going to apologize to the rest of your flight, too.” Much to his consternation, he found that he was actually being honest—he _was_ sorry about what he had called Ruby. 

Ruby wanted to tell him where to stick it, but took a deep breath. After all, she had shot off her mouth more than a few times in the heat of the moment. “Well, um…apology accepted, Lieutenant. Weiss—Lieutenant Schnee is expecting you, but you might want to steer clear of my sister for a few days. She’s got a bad temper…as you know.”

Mercury chuckled. “Yeah. See you around.”

Ruby took another deep breath, and walked into Ozpin’s office.

Ozpin noticeably cheered up when he saw her. “Lieutenant Rose! Are you quite all right?”

“Yes, sir. Thanks for asking.” She rubbed her wrists. “I’d feel better if I had actually hit something…and hadn’t left the party in the paddy wagon.”

“I apologize for that.”

“It’s okay, sir.” Ruby shrugged. “I mean, I was the only one there with a gun. It makes sense.”

“Have a seat,” Ironwood said. Ruby did so. “Lieutenant, this isn’t a board of inquiry. Your actions were a bit reckless, but understandable given the situation. You handled yourself very well.” His finger tapped a sheet of paper on Ozpin’s desk. “We’ve read the arresting officer’s report last night. Is there anything you’d like to add to your statement?”

Ruby seemed a little confused, so Goodwitch asked, “You said the person was tall, female, and dressed in black. Are you certain she was alone? Did she look at all familiar?”

Ruby thought back to the night before. It had been dark, but she had good night vision; the problem was, whoever it was had been dressed entirely in dark clothes. “She was definitely alone…I mean, I didn’t see anyone, but I suppose they could’ve gotten out earlier. But I got there pretty quick after following this woman from the park.” In her mind’s eye, she could see the woman point the pistol at her in the hallway and open fire. It had only been a standard issue nine millimeter, and at a distance, but seeing the barrel spit fire was worse than seeing Torchwick’s missiles coming in her direction. Or at least as bad.

But there had been something. When she had fired the pistol, the muzzle flash had illuminated the woman’s face for just a moment. “I think she had black hair. There was a strand hanging down over her eyes. It could’ve been a shadow, maybe, but I think it was there. She was also in really good shape…” Ruby thought Ironwood was the one who seemed confused this time, so she added, “She was pretty hot. I mean, I don’t go for girls, but she had a smoking bod.”

Goodwitch rolled her eyes, while Ironwood and Ozpin smothered grins. “What color were her eyes?” Goodwitch wanted to know.

“I think they were like a light brown. Kind of hazelish, amber. Not like a Faunus’ eyes, though—not like Blake’s, er, Lieutenant Belladonna.”

Goodwitch nodded. “Well, that’s something at least. We’ll add that to the report when it goes to OSI.” 

“I think that will be all, Lieutenant,” Ozpin said. Ruby stood, but then the Captain held up his hand. “Well, there is one more thing. You’re out of uniform.” He looked to Ironwood.

The big general smiled and reached into a pocket. “The paperwork was filed after the Lake Michigan battle, but it was approved the other day.” He handed Ruby a small box. “Congratulations, 1st Lieutenant Rose.”

Ruby opened the box. In it sparkled the silver bars of her new rank. “But I was brevetted…” She had actually been wearing the bars of a 1st Lieutenant for awhile.

“Now it’s a permanent promotion, rather than just a wartime rank,” Ozpin explained. “And there’s also the matter of your awards. We’ll have a formal ceremony, because there’s a number of medals to hand out, but it’s only fair to tell you now, Lieutenant. For your actions against the air pirates, both over Ohio and Lake Michigan, you have been awarded the Air Medal and the Distinguished Flying Cross.”

Ruby’s eyes went wide. “R-Really?”

Ozpin nodded. “Mm-hm. Congratulations, Lieutenant.”

“The others?” 

“Oh, there will be some medals going to some other people, including your sister and Lieutenant Belladonna. Officially, Penny Polendina is a civilian, so there isn’t anything for her than a pat on the back, but I’ll leave it to General Ironwood to come up with something.” _Weiss is going to feel so left out,_ Ruby mused. “Again, there will be an official announcement, but feel free to tell your friends. Dismissed, Lieutenant.”

“Sir.” Ruby came to attention, executed a superb about-face, and walked towards the door. She paused at it, however. “Captain Ozpin, may I ask a question?”

“Certainly.”

“Do you think this attack is connected to the White Fang and Torchwick?”

It was Ironwood that answered, simply and directly. “Yes.”

“That is not to be made public knowledge, Lieutenant,” Ozpin said. “We trust you to be discreet.”

“Yes, sir.” Ruby left the office.

“Wow!” Yang exclaimed. She sat on her bunk in her underwear. “Wonder what I got?” She stuck her toes in Blake’s hair, between her ears. “Wonder what Blakey got?”

Blake pushed her away. “Gross! Don’t put your nasty feet in my hair, Yang!”

“I just showered!” 

“And, as usual, they overlooked the best pilot in Ruby Flight,” Weiss sighed elaborately. Ruby walked over and put a hand on her shoulder. She had known Weiss long enough to know that the German girl was actually disappointed that she was not getting a decoration as well, but was nice enough not to let her disappointment show—and that she was genuinely happy for the rest of them. 

There was a knock at the door, and Ruby got up to answer it. It was Nora. “Oh, hi!”

“Hey, Ruby!” She pointed to a fair-sized box on the floor. There were holes cut in the sides and roof. “This just came in on the Klong.” The Klong was the C-130 that made the rounds through the bases. It was a Thai term that probably had originated in one of the several wars fought in Southeast Asia, but no one knew why it stuck. “It’s for you. Sign here, please.” She handed Ruby a clipboard.

“What do they got you delivering packages for, Nora?” Yang asked.

“Punishment. Seems we’re not supposed to be playing songs like _I Wanna Sex You Up_ at formal military dances. Colonel Goodwitch was pissed.” Nora shrugged. “Worth it. Well, except for what happened to you, Weiss.”

Weiss also gave a shrug. “I’m over it.”

“Want me to break his legs? I’m totally willing to get busted down to 2nd looey.” They weren’t sure if Nora was serious or not.

“Not necessary,” Weiss told her. “He told us he got a nice little letter of reprimand for it. His career is over.”

“Should’ve gotten a Big Chicken Dinner for it.” Ruby translated the slang in her head: a BCD, or Bad Conduct Discharge. In actuality, officers could not get a BCD, but once more, Nora seemed to regard military regulations as being guidelines and mere suggestions. The box rattled, which caused Ruby to jump a bit. “Well, guess I’d better get going,” Nora said. “Enjoy.”

“Hey, Nora.” Yang’s eyes sparkled with devilment. “You get lucky with Ren?”

In actuality, Nora had merely enjoyed a nice, long kiss with her beau to top off the night, as they had been pretty tired at the end of it, but she wasn’t going to let Yang know that. She merely winked, then walked off, a little bowlegged and wincing in faux pain. Yang wasn’t fooled, but she laughed anyway.

Ruby dragged the box in and shut the door. “Wonder what the heck this is?” She checked the shipping label. “Huh. It’s from Dad.”

Yang hopped off the bed. “And it’s got airholes.” She and Ruby looked at each other, realization dawning. “You don’t think…”

Now Weiss and Blake were on their feet as Yang and Ruby tore open the package. It revealed a small pet carrier, and as Ruby opened the door, a black and white corgi shot out like a cannonball. It jumped into her arms, nearly knocking her over, and began licking her face. 

“ _Zwei?”_ Yang said in amazement. At the sound of his name, Zwei kicked his short paws and tried to get from Ruby to Yang. Yang grabbed the dog under his ears and kissed his snout. He yipped happily. 

Blake leapt backwards as if Zwei was a bomb. She was suddenly on top of Yang’s bunk, ears laid back; she bit down on her lips to keep a hiss from escaping them. One part of her brain said this was stupid: she wasn’t actually a cat, just a cat Faunus, and she outweighed Zwei about ten to one. The other part that was Faunus instinct wanted to leap out the window. “Your dad sent you a dog in the _mail?”_

“Oh, sure,” Yang said. “He does that sort of thing all the time. One time he sent Mom a turkey with all the trimmings when she couldn’t be home for Thanksgiving. Of course, the weather set in and she didn’t get it for like three weeks. Mom said it was a little gamey.” Blake turned a bit green at that.

“There was that time he fixed the faucet with duct tape!” Ruby laughed.

“And blew up the sink!” Yang giggled. “The Fixer strikes again!”

Weiss brought back their attention to the matter at hand. “We can’t have an animal in the dorms!”

“Why not?” Ruby asked. “Is there a reg against it?”

Weiss opened her mouth, thought a moment, then sighed. “There isn’t, but you’re not going to tell me that I’ll be living with some mangy, drooling mutt…” Zwei stopped panting, and looked up at her, with his sad, dark eyes. If Weiss had truly been an Ice Queen, she would have melted on the spot. “…forevah and evah?” She reached out and scratched behind one of the corgi’s ears. “Oh yes! Yes he is! He’s a good doggie! So cute,” Weiss cooed. Zwei leaned into her hand. 

Blake climbed down from Yang’s bunk. “Just keep that thi—keep him away from me.”

Yang thrust Zwei at Blake. “But he likes you too, Blakey!” Zwei barked, as if in agreement.

Blake’s hair actually raised. “That’s…that’s nice.” 

Yang decided to save Blake from imminent Zwei cuteness. “You’ll have to get acquainted later. It’s almost 1200. We’re supposed to be at Hangar One.”

“Think he’ll be okay here?” Yang asked. 

Ruby was rooting around in the box. “Sure!” She brought out a water dish, a bag of canned dog food and a can opener. “We’ll feed him when we get back!” She hurried over to the sink and filled the dish, and left it on the floor. Yang set Zwei down, and he waddled over to the dish to drink.

Three of them left, with Weiss still starry-eyed and talking nonsense to the dog. Blake was the last to leave. Zwei looked up at her, and Blake tried to stare him down; it was a losing contest against puppy eyes. “If you shit on anything in here,” she warned, “I swear I’ll eat you.”

He barked, and Blake hastily retreated. 

_Hangar One_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_1 May 2001_

It was a rather nice day, and to take advantage of it, the chairs were set up outside, on the tarmac. Spring seemed finally to have taken hold in Wisconsin. All of the pilots took seats, and inevitably remained with their flights. It amazed Ruby how people that not even a month ago could not have identified each other without the help of a nametag on the uniform now knew each other as intimately as lovers. It was one thing for her to be able to tell when Yang was in a flirty mood or in a rotten mood, but now she knew when Weiss was homesick, and when Blake was moody. She suspected it was the same way with the other flights, and also that it meant Vytal Flag was doing exactly what it existed for. Ruby did notice that Coffee Flight was missing. She also noticed that Creamer Flight was there, including Mercury Black. He glanced in Ruby’s direction, but looked straight through her, as if she wasn’t even there.

Almost as soon as Ruby had taken her seat, Glynda Goodwitch mounted the dais, and barked “All rise! Commanding officer present!” Ruby shot back to her feet with the rest, coming to attention. 

Ozpin and Goodwitch exchanged salutes, and then he stood, feet apart, cane behind his back, in front of them. “Good afternoon,” he said. “Be seated.” He waited a moment until the pilots took their seats in a scrape of metal chairs and shoes, then began. “On this date, 38 years ago, the Third World War—the most destructive war in the history of mankind—ended. We have rebuilt, we have fought many more wars, with each other and with the GRIMM, but today, this year, we largely stand united as one people. We may be different species, different genders, different colors, different faiths, different creeds, even different orientations as to who we love, but we are, in the end, all people who live on this one, small planet. 

“But this bond cannot exist without peace. Humans and Faunus may enjoy peace, but there are threats out there, as there were in the past, both human, Faunus, and GRIMM. George Orwell is said to have written, ‘People sleep peaceably in their beds at night because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.’ Ladies and gentlemen, _we_ are those rough people, and we must stand ready indeed.

“In a week, we will be welcoming people from all over the world to Vytal Flag. Already, we have people here from the United States of Canada, Germany, France, Greece, United China, Malaysia, Spain, Iraq, Japan, Israel, and Italy. In a week’s time, we will expand that to include Turkey, Lebanon, Egypt, the Republic of Korea, and Jordan. For the first time, Vytal Flag exercises will be broadcast live to the people of the United States, and recorded for the rest of the world.” Ozpin smiled, but Ruby noticed the smile did not quite make it to his eyes. “I suspect some of you may become something like celebrities.” His eyes flitted over Pyrrha Nikos for just a moment. 

“But before we demonstrate our abilities to the world and show what rough men—and women—can do, there is still one more aspect of your training that you need to accomplish, one that is not for the cameras to observe, but one far more important. For the next week, each flight will be shadowing a superior officer on a Huntsman or Huntress flight. You will be flying the furthest combat mission you have ever flown…into the Dead Zones. Rather than flying simulated combat, or patrolling the Barrier, you will be going into the very lair of the GRIMM. You will be going into their territory, but you will not be fighting them according to their rules—but yours. 

“Each flight has been assigned to an instructor. Because we have a number of flights and a limited amount of Huntsman/Huntress trained instructors, some of you may have to wait in line, as it were. If you are one of those flights, you will still get your chance—never fear.” There was some scattered laughter at that. “At the moment, Coffee Flight is already on their mission, with Lieutenant Colonel Peach. If all has gone well, they should be returning tomorrow morning. We will make the announcements for each flight, but first, there are some administrative matters we must take care of.” 

For the first time, Ruby noticed that there was a table set up on the dais, and saw that Goodwitch, who had disappeared during Ozpin’s speech, had returned with a briefcase. She opened it, but Ruby could not see what she was taking out of it. 

Ozpin checked to see that Goodwitch was ready, then turned back to the crowd. “Will the following pilots please come up to the dais: 1st Lieutenant Ruby Rose, Captain Sun Wukong, Captain Yang Xiao Long, Major Pyrrha Nikos, Lieutenant Jaune Arc, and 1st Lieutenant Blake Belladonna.” All of those called looked at each other in question, then realization dawned for Ruby. It had to be the medals. Ozpin wasn’t waiting. Curiously, he shuffled Blake to the end of the line.

All six of them came up to the dais and stood at attention. Ozpin walked to Ruby; Goodwitch took up position behind her commanding officer. Ozpin’s voice was loud and clear; he needed no microphone. “1st Lieutenant Ruby Rose, on the recommendation of your superior officers and in the presence of your peers, you are hereby awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross and Air Medal, for your actions against the Torchwick Air Pirate Gang on 11 April 2001 and on 19 April 2001.” He opened the medal cases one at a time and pinned the medals on her tunic. Ruby looked down at them and felt tears welling in her eyes. The DFC was a stylized gold propeller against a golden cross, beneath a mostly blue ribbon. The Air Medal showed a diving eagle, also in gold, clutching lightning bolts, against a sun, also underneath a mostly blue ribbon. She forced herself to fight back the tears and saluted Ozpin, who returned it with a smile. “Where you are,” he whispered to her, “I once was. Where I am, you one day will be.” She nodded. All she could think of was a vision of Summer Rose, a barely remembered sight of her mother wearing her dress blue uniform. Summer had five DFCs and eight Air Medals. _Wish you could see me, Mom,_ Ruby thought.

Ozpin went down the line. Sun got a Bronze Star with V Device; the Bronze Star was uncommon, but the V Device meant that it had been awarded for conduct under fire, and therefore had more cachet among military people. Yang beamed when she got her DFC, and grinned hugely at Ozpin when she saluted him. Pyrrha and Jaune also got DFCs; Pyrrha actually already had three, but it was the European Union version, and this was her first American one. She smiled, and for once Ruby saw that her smile was not tinged with sadness. Jaune looked as if he was going to pass out, and wore a silly smile. When Ozpin turned away for a moment, Jaune caught Ruby’s eye. _Wow,_ he mouthed. 

“We’ve saved the best for last,” Ozpin announced when he reached Blake. “Lieutenant Belladonna, originally you were to be awarded the Silver Star for your actions on 19 April 2001. However, your subsequent willingness to volunteer for a highly risky flight over the Ohio Dead Zone on 23 April, and your successful execution of that mission, led the United States Navy to reconsider the award. On the recommendation of myself and other members of the US government, it was decided to award you a different medal.” He reached behind him, opened a case, and took out a gold Maltese cross, with a sailing ship in the center, under a dark blue and white ribbon. It was no larger than Ruby’s Air Medal, but her mouth went dry. Blake’s eyes widened and she gasped involuntarily.

“By the decision of the Navy and with the approval of your commanding officers, you are awarded the Navy Cross— _Captain_ Blake Belladonna.” Ozpin pinned the medal above Blake’s left breast, took a step back, and saluted her. Blake, after a second of stunned hesitation, returned the salute. The Navy Cross was second only to the Medal of Honor. 

There was silence in the crowd, which were just as stunned as Blake. Then Weiss jumped to her feet and began clapping. Nora and Ren were second, and then everyone was on their feet, cheering and clapping. Somehow Blake held it together, but Ruby, her own eyes still misty, saw the tears streaming down Weiss’ face in happiness for her friend. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good ol' Zwei. I need to remember him more in my stories. (Not "Love Hurts," though.)


	42. Love's Been a Little Bit Hard On Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the awards ceremony, Blake decides that it's time to come clean about Adam Taurus. Before she can tell all to Ruby Flight, however, she needs to trust her wingmate Yang first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A relatively short chapter, one I'm very proud of. I figured it was high time Blake let someone in Ruby Flight know about Adam...and naturally, that someone is Yang. Since RT has yet to give us much background in Blake and Adam's relationship, some of what I wrote in this chapter is based on the DC Comics RWBY #2 (which talks about how they met) and my own ideas of what happened between them. And yes, there's some big time Bumblebee in this chapter.

_Hangar One_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_1 May 2001_

“Return to your seats, please,” Ozpin told them, and the six went back to their flights. Nora hugged Jaune and Pyrrha, while Weiss playfully flicked at Ruby’s two medals. Ruby barely noticed Ozpin reading the instructor assignments to the other flights, but her ears perked up when Ruby Flight was mentioned. “Ruby Flight,” Ozpin said, “you are assigned to Professor Oobleck.”

“Oobleck?” Yang wondered aloud.

Ozpin heard her. “Yes, Professor Oobleck. He may be better known in the classroom now, but he is still a qualified pilot. He will meet you at Dispersal A at 0500 tomorrow morning. Though he is a civilian contractor, you will treat him as your commanding officer.” Yang sank a little in her seat; Ozpin’s tone brooked no argument.

After fielding a few questions, Ozpin dismissed them. “The Officers Club is open, and I encourage you to properly congratulate our awardees today. However, remember that you fly in the morning, hangover or not. Also, there will be no carrier landings—“ he looked at Ruby “—and especially no naked bar dancing.” He turned the look on Nora, and ignored her “Awww”. 

As they left the area, Blake put a hand on Yang’s arm. “Yang, if you have a few minutes, could I talk with you?” she whispered, making sure Weiss and Ruby were occupied. 

“Sure. Weiss, Rubes, Blake and I got to head back to the dorm real quick. We’ll meet you at the O Club.”

“Certainly.” Weiss gave them a curious look, but she did not stop them; Ruby was too engrossed in talking to Sun about her four-kill day against Torchwick’s gang. 

Instead of going back to the dorms, Blake led Yang along the flightline. The ground crews were hard at work getting aircraft ready for tomorrow’s round of flights. “What’s up?” Yang asked.

“Before the dance, when we had that argument…”

Yang waved it off. “Water under the bridge, Blake. Hell, I’d forgotten about it.”

“I haven’t. Mainly because Weiss was right, and so were you. We made a pact that there wouldn’t be any secrets in Ruby Flight. No lies, no half-truths.”

“Okay.”

Blake couldn’t meet Yang’s eyes. “Ruby asked why I was so scared of the pilot in the forward-swept aircraft. It’s a custom job, by the way; a modified F-5 called the Moonslice. But the pilot, well…” Blake took a deep breath, missed a step. “You see…he’s sort of…my ex.”

Yang stopped, forcing Blake to the same. “Wait. You were _married?_ ” 

“What? No!” Blake winced. “God, no. Ex-boyfriend.”

Yang whistled. “Small world.”

“Not that small.” Blake kept walking. They were past the dispersal areas, and climbed a hill that would serve to deflect bombs from hitting the dispersal. It also gave a great view of the entire base. Both stopped to look: it was certainly an impressive lineup of different aircraft. “His name is Adam Taurus, and if he’s here, it’s because he’s here for me.”

“Is he hot?”

Blake growled. “Yang, can’t you be serious for five minutes?”

“Sure, but why?” At the anger beginning to appear on Blake’s face, Yang put her hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay.” She sat on the berm, pulled up a piece of grass, and started nibbling on it. “So this Adam Taunus—“

“Taurus. Like the bull. He’s actually a bull Faunus; he’s got horns.” She leveled a finger in Yang’s face. “Don’t you dare say it. I need you to be serious, Yang.”

“Fine.” Yang moved a hand down her face, as if changing her expression manually. “I’m serious now.”

“Good.” Blake sat as well and drew her knees up to her chin. “Okay, because you’re going to ask, I might as well tell you the whole story. We met at a White Fang rally, right after Sienna Khan took over from my father. He had just returned from a raid, probably on the Schnee company. They took some losses, and I found him crying about it. He tried to look so tough, like the fearless freedom fighter—he even wears a mask--but he cried over losing his friends.”

“That’s not weird,” Yang put in. She thought about how she would feel if something happened to Weiss. Or Blake herself. The thought made her smile a little. How close they had become in a short time.

“It wasn’t. He asked if I was afraid of him. I wasn’t. I was intrigued by him. I saw the man behind the mask, and I liked what I saw.” Blake chuckled. “And yes, Yang, he was hot. Very much so.”

“Let me guess. He was your first.”

“First kiss, first boyfriend, first lover. He even took me up for my first flight.” Blake shuddered at the memory, and not from fear. “He was like a drug, Yang. I couldn’t get enough. It wasn’t the sex—though that was great, too—it was everything. He was like a knight from the fairytales. I was head over heels in love, and he loved me back, just as strong. My parents warned me that Adam was bad news, but I didn’t care. We…” Blake searched for the right word. “We _consumed_ each other.”

“Sounds great so far.” Though her father was not aware of the fact, Yang Xiao Long was no longer a virgin, and hadn’t been for some time. Yang, however, had never found a steady boyfriend, and contented herself with the occasional one-night stand and friends-with-benefits. To have that sort of love for another person was something Yang had never experienced, and when she was honest with herself, never expected to. 

“It was. But like my father likes to say, what can’t continue won’t.” Blake sighed. “I didn’t even notice it at first. We were so much in love…but I didn’t notice how fanatic he was getting. Sienna was feeding him, of course, because she needed a blunt instrument and Adam was it…but the insanity was always there. It didn’t make a difference how many Faunus prisoners we freed or how many mines we blew up, it was never enough for Adam. He wanted more. If we killed six, he wanted to know why we hadn’t killed ten.

“And I was a damned idiot, Yang.” Blake sighed again, longer and harder than the first time. “I thought it was me. I thought I was weak, that I couldn’t make the sacrifices necessary for the cause. That’s what he told me. I needed to be tougher. Some random Schnee Company guard, just a working guy whose only sin was taking a security job in a factory? Sure, we could’ve just tied him up or told him to run or die. It wasn’t even enough to put a bullet between his eyes. Adam had to cut his throat and watch the poor man bleed out. I told him, ‘Adam, we can’t do this. We’re _creating_ more hatred for the Faunus than we’re halting.’ And he would just turn on me and say ‘Quit being such a weak sister.’ And I’d believe him. I tried not to kill, Yang. I really did. And I usually succeeded. And every time, Adam would tell me how weak I was. How _human._ ”

“Sounds like you need Nora to break his fucking legs,” Yang told her.

“There were times _I_ wanted to break his fucking legs. In the three years we were together, I can’t tell you how many times I wanted to shoot him. But every time, he’d do something nice for me—buy me a new bow for my hair, or just say a funny thing. He can be so damn charming, Yang. His favorite tactic was to just stare at me up and down, from my ears to my toes. Next thing I know, our clothes are off and he’s making love to me—anywhere we were. It worked every time, and I’d forgive him…until the next time he killed someone or belittled me.”

“What a shithead.”

Blake felt tears in her eyes, and rubbed them away angrily. “He didn’t start off like that, Yang! He was so kind. I was his first too. He was nervous just kissing me the first time. The first time we slept together, he slipped and fell off the bed. He wrote me poetry, for heaven’s sake…really crappy poetry, but it was for me. Then he just became…something. So gradual I didn’t notice, because I didn’t want to...maybe he was always like that, but I didn’t want to see…” Now Blake was crying, despite herself. She slammed a fist into the unyielding ground, then against her knees. “Stop it, you fucking candy ass!” Blake sobbed at herself. “Stop it! God, I’m so useless…crying over this shit…crying over _him…”_

Yang reached out and gathered her friend into a hug. Blake bawled into her shoulder. Her hands clasped and unclasped behind Yang’s back, and occasionally even hammered into her friend’s shoulder blades without meaning to. Yang took it. _Go ahead,_ she thought, and wished she could say it aloud. _Hit me, Blake. I can take it. Hit me. Yell. Scream. Scream at this whole fucking world and how shitty it can be to a person who just wants to be loved._ Yang had done it herself, hitting her father so hard she left bruises, as she cried and screamed for a mother that never loved her and a mother that died loving her. She ran her fingers through Blake’s hair, calming her as Taiyang Xiao Long had done to his daughters when the pain grew to be more than anyone could stand.

Finally, Blake began to run down. Yang’s shoulder was wet with tears. “I’m sorry, Yang. I’m so sorry.” Blake drew back, her face stained, though Yang’s arms still were behind her. “I know I shouldn’t cry.”

“Why? Big bad Faunus Marine don’t cry?” Yang laughed. “Nothing to apologize for, Blake. You needed to cry.” On impulse, Yang leaned forward and kissed Blake on the brow. “You’re not useless. You’re a good person, Blake.”

“No, I’m not. I’ve done things…”

Yang looked at her, lilac on yellow. “Do I have to rip off _The Lion_ King and bonk you in the head like Ruby did?”

Blake moved out of Yang’s embrace. “No. You’re right. But that’s why I have—why _we_ have to stop the White Fang. Not just to make up for what I’ve done. Sienna Khan doesn’t want justice for Faunus, Yang. She wants to rule. And Adam won’t stop. Even if something happened to Sienna, he wouldn’t stop.”

“No. He’s gotten addicted to it. Not the killing, I don’t think,” Yang said. “The adrenaline. He doesn’t care about Sienna’s revolution; he just cares about keeping it going so he can get his fix. Even if the humans were defeated tomorrow, he’d find a new enemy to fight.”

Blake stared at her strangely. “Who are you and what have you done with Yang Xiao Long? I didn’t think you studied psychology.” Yang rolled her eyes. “No, really. That’s the best description of Adam Taurus I’ve ever heard.”

Yang shrugged. “I speak from experience. Why the hell do you think I fly? The day I applied for flight school, Dad cried like a baby. He didn’t want me ending up like Mom—like Summer Rose—in a pine box with nothing in it. But Summer took me flying when I was five, and I was hooked.” Yang shook her head. “You know, when we were fighting that Nevermore, and it was right on my tail, and I was weaving in and out of those buildings…God, Blake. I’ve never felt more alive in my life.” Yang gazed wistfully at _Ember Celica,_ waiting expectantly in its hardstand. “Yeah, I can get adrenaline junkies, since I’m one too. And I bet I can get why he’s here.” She turned her attention back to Blake. “Since he can’t have you, no one can.”

Blake nodded. “He’s obsessed with me, Yang. I told him I was leaving, probably a dozen times before I finally did. He never believed me. He said ‘You’ll come back. You always have.’ And now that I really am gone, and he’s realized I _won’t_ come crawling back to him, he wants to find me and bring me back by force. And the really screwed up part? He still loves me."

“And you still love him.” Yang didn’t make it a question.

“I love the Adam Taurus I fell in love with.” Blake got to her feet. “The problem is, Yang, I don’t know I can take him if it comes to that. He’s a hell of a good pilot. The best I’ve ever seen. Even in _Gambol Shroud,_ I don’t know if I can beat him.”

“He got a wingman?” Yang stood as well, brushing off dirt and grass from her thighs and bottom. 

“If he does, it’s just someone from the White Fang. Weiss shot down Adam’s last wingman without too much trouble.”

“Cool. Because if your ex comes at us, Blake, then he won’t be messing with you. He’ll be scrambling with all of Ruby Flight, alone, and either you, me, Ruby or Weiss will be putting a Sidewinder or an AMRAAM up his ass. Or twenty mike-mike, if I’m feeling sporting.” She pointed at Blake. “And that’s a fucking promise.”

“I believe you.” Blake smiled. “Huh. You know, I just wanted to clear the air and make you feel better, but I think _I’m_ the one who feels better.” She wasn’t sure what to do, so Blake hugged Yang. “Thanks.”

“Nada. We all stick together in the theater.” Blake looked a bit quizzical at that, and Yang laughed. “Something Dad likes to say.” She began walking down the hill. “We have to fly tomorrow, but by all that’s holy, I’m having a beer.”

“I’ll buy.” Blake followed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe a lot of Adam fans and Tauradonna shippers won't be too pleased with this depiction of Adam--as a man with good intentions and the love of a good girl got warped into a fanatic by a cause and a manipulative leader in Sienna Khan, and went from being Blake's shy first lover to someone who needs to possess her. 
> 
> I do write more about him (a lot more) in later chapters, and try to give him some depth, so he doesn't become Kylo Ren. I also wanted to show how Yang and Blake are beginning to get close, but are very much only friends at this stage. Blake is still in love with Adam on some level, and Yang just doesn't think she'll ever love anyone romantically. 
> 
> The term "We stick together in the theater" actually comes from my very first attempts at fanfics, waaay back in 2001! It's a reference to Mike and the Bots in MST3K. I actually started off as a MSTie on Shinji's Vault of Anime MSTings before I branched out into writing with Inu-Yasha and Battletech. Something tells me Taiyang (and Yang) are MST3K fans.


	43. Destination Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for Ruby Flight to start training as Huntresses, and Professor Oobleck leads them into the Minnesota Dead Zone. 
> 
> The GRIMM are waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some GRIMM killing action! Not much pause from here on out, as we build up to the finale of this story arc, and about five chapters worth of nonstop fighting.

_Squadron Dispersal Area A_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_2 May 2001_

The sun was barely over the horizon as Ruby Flight walked to their aircraft—or at least Ruby, Weiss and Blake did. Yang staggered. She had woken up with the feeling of dwarf miners loose in her brain, pounding away with jackhammers. Now she was wondering who had issued the dwarves B-52s. “Oh, Goddd,” she moaned. 

“I warned you,” Weiss reminded her. “And so did Blake.”

“Blake drank as much as me! Damn Faunus, don’t get hangovers…”

“I didn’t drink as much as you. I had one beer.” At Yang’s questioning look, Blake said, “I was drinking ginger ale. You _assumed_ it was alcohol.”

“Fuck you, Blake,” Yang growled. 

“In front of your sister and Weiss?” Blake winked at her.

Weiss made a show of being sick. Yang grinned at the German girl. “Fuck you too, Weiss.” Ruby raised an eyebrow. “Not fuck you, Ruby. That’s incest.”

“She’s fine,” Ruby said sourly. Yang laughed, but nearly fell over from the pain. Blake laughed too, which caused Weiss and Ruby to grin. The Faunus seemed happy this morning, the happiest they had seen her. 

Then Ruby stopped, so quickly Yang walked into her. Before she could ask why, Ruby was off in a blur of olive drab and reddish hair. “What the…” She followed Weiss’ finger. “Oh.”

Ruby skidded to a halt in front of the fighter, and her helmet bag clattered to the tarmac in amazement. “It’s…a…”

Professor Bartholomew Oobleck came out from behind the aircraft, dressed in a new flight suit. “Ah, good morning, Lieutenant Rose!” He patted the side of the long, narrow nose. “You’ve probably never seen a F-106 before, have you?”

“Only in museums,” Ruby drooled. She ran her hands over it. “F-106A Delta Dart. Fastest single engine fighter ever built. Can go Mach 2.3. Last of the Century Series. Delta wings. Oh, it’s beautiful.” She ducked under the low delta wing. “You’ve even got the Six Shooter package!” She patted the fairing beneath the F-106’s internal weapons bay, underneath which was the six barrels of the M61 Vulcan twenty millimeter gatling cannon. Ruby came out from under the wing, and ran her hands over that, too, with all the intimacy of touching a lover. “I didn’t think there were any left flyable!”

“This is the last one,” Oobleck told her. He tapped the large USAF insignia on the fuselage—the older, prewar one with a star in the center rather than the Canadian Maple Leaf. 

The rest of Ruby Flight arrived. “This is a relic. A beautiful one,” Weiss hastily added, as Oobleck and Ruby both turned furious eyes on her. 

“I’ll have you know that I can give a F-15 a run for its money in this.” Oobleck pointed to the wings. “This is a special aircraft, only brought out for special occasions, such as when I take out prospective Huntsmen and Huntresses out on missions.”

“Oh wow!” Ruby touched the missiles slung outboard of the thin external fuel tanks. “You’ve got Sparrows!”

“And the radar of the F-15 in the nose,” Oobleck added.

Blake inspected the tail. It was a throwback to the old days, when markings were as gaudy as possible, before everyone had gone more subdued. Some of the air defense units still carried full color markings—such as Ruby’s original squadron—but it was rare now. The tail of the F-106 carried bright blue stripes and white-trimmed blue triangles on the rudder. “’Montana, Big Sky Country,’” Blake read. “Where’s that?”

Oobleck turned somber. “I was born there. It no longer exists. Not as a state.”

“The nuclear exchange, Professor?” Weiss asked.

“I’m not that old, Oberleutnant!” Oobleck laughed. “No, it was overrun by GRIMM. But I wanted to preserve history.” He took two steps forward and bent over into Weiss’ face. “And that’s _Doctor_ Oobleck, Oberleutnant. I didn’t get a Ph.D for fun, you know.” Before Weiss could do anything but stammer an apology, Oobleck straightened up. “Well, enough admiring my aircraft. Chop-chop, ladies! We’re already three minutes behind. Shall we get into the air?”

“Should we bring anything?” Blake wanted to know. “I mean, we’re going to be gone for a day or two, right?”

“To quote the Bible, Lieu—ah, Captain Belladonna, ‘take nothing for the journey—no staff, no bag, no bread, no money, no extra shirt.’” Blake smiled at the reference to her new rank, and couldn’t help but steal a glance at the double bars of a captain that now glittered on her flight suit. “I’ll brief you in the air.” Oobleck clapped his hands. “Four minutes now, ladies!” He mounted the ladder on the side of the big fighter.

Ruby Flight walked briskly towards their own aircraft, just beyond Oobleck’s F-106. To their surprise, Juniper Flight was waiting for them. Jaune, Pyrrha, Nora and Ren were dressed in fatigues rather than flight suits. “Saving the world with Professor Oobleck?” Pyrrha asked. She seemed rather chipper as well.

“ _Doctor_ Oobleck,” Yang snickered, then sobered a little. “Okay, yeah…when you say it out loud, it sounds worse.”

“And you’re not even taking us. I’m mad and sad at the same time.” Nora let out an elaborate sigh. “Is there a word for that?”

“Smad,” Ruby said. Weiss closed her eyes in actual pain. 

Nora nodded. “Smad. I like it.” Her stomach rumbled dangerously. “Oh, I’m hungry too.” She looked at Ren, who pretended not to notice. Everyone knew there were pancakes in Juniper Flight’s immediate future; Nora was good at wearing down her beau.

“So what did you guys draw?” Jaune asked.

“Search and destroy,” Blake answered. “We’re flying over the Minnesota Dead Zone up to some place called Fargo. Probably back by day after tomorrow…if everything goes okay.”

“Same with us,” Nora said. “We got Colonel Goodwitch. She’s taking us over to Ellsworth tomorrow.”

Suddenly there was nothing more to say. The eight friends looked at each other, as all of them abruptly realized that it could be for the last time. “Good luck,” Ren said finally.

“You too,” Weiss replied. 

The flights parted, and then Ruby Flight broke up to go to their respective aircraft. Ruby gave Yang a quick hug and ran to her F-16. Oobleck’s F-106 was spooling up, shattering the morning quiet with a roar. 

Yang climbed into _Ember Celica,_ after a quick preflight. A full load of AMRAAMs and Sidewinders hung off her aircraft, and she patted the kill marks below her canopy. If she had her way, there would be more by the end of the day. Her crew chief helped her strap in, then pulled the ladder away as Yang dropped the canopy. A quick look over the instruments, a few pushes of buttons to program the inertial navigation system, then a slow push up of the throttle to get the engines going. Satisfied all was in order, Yang gave the chief the order to pull the wheel chocks. The ground crew did so, and Yang taxied out of the hardstand; she returned the chief’s smart salute. Yang tapped the brakes and waited for Ruby to taxi out in front of her. Behind her, in the rearview mirrors set into the canopy bow, she saw Weiss and Blake take up position behind her. Once Ruby was moving ahead, Yang followed, using one hand to control the aircraft and the other to fasten her oxygen mask securely. She settled into the ejection seat, trying to adjust it so her hair wasn’t caught between her back and the seat; whereas both Blake and Weiss pinned up their hair under their helmets, Yang refused to hide her blonde locks. 

“Ruby Flight is cleared to Runway 03 Right,” Beacon Tower radioed them. “Hold for departing F-106.” 

Yang watched as Oobleck’s fighter—which was even larger than her F-15—took up position on the runway. Purple and orange shock diamonds streamed from the engine as he ran it up to power, then the old Delta Dart shot forward. In seconds, in a roar Yang could hear even through her helmet, it was in the air and climbing. 

“Beacon Tower, Ruby Lead,” Yang heard her sister radio. “Request Viking Departure.”

Yang grinned beneath her oxygen mask. “Hot damn, Rubes.”

“Ruby Lead, Beacon. Cleared for Viking Departure. Winds out of the west at ten knots, ceiling unlimited. Good hunting.”

Ruby’s F-16 taxied into position, and much like Oobleck, the afterburner roared. Weighed down with missiles and drop tanks, _Crescent Rose_ did not quite accelerate and takeoff like the F-106 had, but it was still an impressive sight.

Now it was Yang’s turn. Her heart pounded in anticipation. Nothing climbed like a F-15; the Viking Departure had been invented for Eagle drivers. She kept her feet on the toe brakes as she ran up her throttle. Behind her, the twin Pratt and Whitney engines shook _Ember Celica_ and Beacon itself. Then she released the brakes, and the F-15 shot forward as if it had been catapulted. Yang watched the speed build up, then pulled the stick back into her stomach. She felt the landing gear leave the runway and quickly reached out to raise it, before the acceleration either locked the gear in place or tore it free of the aircraft. Now aerodynamically clean, Yang stood _Ember Celica_ on its tail and climbed. Behind her, the runway and Beacon fell away rapidly. She felt the G-forces shove her back into her seat and laughed aloud as she went through 15,000 feet only seconds after leaving the ground. _The Viking Departure,_ Yang thought. _A soul rises to Valhalla…or something like that. Woo doggies! This is better than sex._ Yang laughed to herself. _Which doesn’t say much for my sex life, I suppose…_ Her hangover disappeared as if by magic. 

“Put her on the roof, Yang!” she heard Ruby say. 

The sky darkened, and Yang rolled out at 45,000 feet, with Ruby below and to her left. Below her, the green forests of Wisconsin spread out, and she could see all the way to Lake Michigan. Her eyes caught the gray delta of Weiss’ Typhoon climbing to meet her, followed by Blake’s Tomcat.

“Quite impressive, Ruby Flight,” Oobleck radioed. “However, we will be flying at 35,000 feet today. Join up on me, if you please.”

Ruby Flight descended and took up an expanded box formation, with Oobleck taking up position in front of them. “Ruby Flight, come left to 130 degrees. I have the lead. Noses cold and switch to channel four.” The five aircraft gently turned to the northwest. Before long, the forests of Wisconsin gave way to the muddy brown of the Mississippi River. “Pinetree Control, Oscar Oscar,” Oobleck radioed. “Clearing barrier.”

“Roger, Oscar Oscar,” Pinetree replied. “Weather is clear. Your code is Applejack. Best of luck; Pinetree out.” 

_Now we’re in Monster Country,_ Yang thought to herself. She was automatically quartering the sky, mainly to the rear and left, and watching her spacing with Blake. Out of habit, she had let Blake lead their section, where she could use the Tomcat’s undernose TCS to watch the sky. It was a beautiful day, with just a few cumulus clouds. Something nagged at Yang. “Oscar Oscar—“

“You can call me Oobleck up here, Yang,” he said.

“With all due respect, sir, I didn’t think you were a fighter pilot.”

Oobleck laughed. “I admit that I see myself nowadays as more of an intellectual, but trust me, I have seen more than my share of dogfighting. I flew F-106s and F-4s against GRIMM in the 70s and 80s. Things were…somewhat tougher then.”

Yang could imagine. No helmet sights, no fire-and-forget missiles like the AMRAAM, aircraft nowhere near as maneuverable or with the all-around vision the “teen” fighters like the F-14, F-15 and F-16 had, aircraft designed for fighting GRIMM. When radars were so bulky they took two people to operate effectively, and you had to stay locked on while the missiles guided—assuming they worked at all—while the GRIMM flew rings around you and swarmed the defenders. Oobleck’s survival said a lot, and she remembered Goodwitch talking about Ozpin’s Medal of Honor. _Six Nevermores!_ Yang shook her head in wonderment.

“Besides,” Oobleck continued, “given my expertise in history as well as my dabblings in archaeology, our dear commanding officer saw fit to give me this particular assignment.”

“What’s history got to do with it?” Weiss asked.

“What a preposterous question, you silly girl!” Oobleck chided. Yang stifled a laugh; she swore she could see Weiss bristle even from this distance. “History is the backbone of society! And the liver. Probably the kidneys as well.”

_Crap,_ Yang thought. _He would mention kidneys._ It abruptly reminded her that she had forgotten, in the midst of her hangover, to use the bathroom before they left. There was a relief tube in the F-15, but it wasn’t really designed for females. 

“I’ll give you an example,” Oobleck said. “Look over to your left, at nine o’clock low. Besides the radioactive ruins of the Twin Cities, that’s also the location of a more recent failure.”

“Mountain Glenn,” Blake remarked.

“Very good!” Oobleck approved. 

“And a possible hideout,” the Faunus girl added.

“Precisely,” Oobleck agreed. “We may have to check it out when we get back, but for now, change course to 150 degrees.” The formation began to turn slowly west, skirting the ruins of Minneapolis-St. Paul. 

Another ten minutes passed in silence. It was Ruby who broke it. “Oobleck, are we looking for anything in particular?”

“Not in particular, Ruby,” Oobleck replied. “Search and destroy. This route was chosen because our friends in the AWACS thought they detected GRIMM in this area the other day. Now there are various explanations for this activity, but one of them is, oh, GRIMM.”

There was another pause as Ruby Flight wondered why Oobleck would state the blindingly obvious. “Er…say again—“ Ruby began, but Oobleck interrupted her. “Tally-ho. Beowulf at eleven o’clock low, going away.” Four more pairs of eyes instantly went to that sector. Yang caught movement, but could not pick the GRIMM out.

“I got him!” Ruby sang out, and the F-16 began to dip and turn to fire.

“Hold formation and leave your radar off!” Oobleck snapped. “It’s a single. We wait. We track. We’ll see if he leads us back to his pack.”

“How long do we wait?” Blake asked.

“It’s uncertain, Blake. Lone Beowolves have been known to fly around for weeks without their pack—and never mind, because there’s the pack, twelve o’clock low. Near the big lake.” Yang saw them: an arrowhead formation of eight Beowolves. Her map display told her the lake was Leech Lake. 

“And now they’ve detected us,” Oobleck stated. He sounded bored. Yang watched as the formation turned as one and began climbing towards Ruby Flight. She checked her altimeter. They were at 35,000 feet; Beowolves could not get above 30,000, but they could shoot their missiles from that range. 

“I take it we’re not tracking them!” Ruby exclaimed.

“An accurate assumption.”

“What’s the plan, boss?” Yang asked. She switched on her radar and her hands tightened on throttle and stick. 

“Splash them all, of course,” Oobleck answered. “Break and attack. Show me what you’re capable of, Ruby Flight. I’m holding high.” 

They needed no more encouragement. Without further orders, Ruby Flight split into its two sections and dived.

“Yang, split right; I’ll come in from the left,” Blake ordered. They were the same rank now, but Blake had the lead and she would give the orders to start off with.

“Roger that, I got the lead Beowulf.” Yang shifted off to the right as Blake’s F-14 passed over her. The Beowolves split their formation as well, three going towards their section and five towards Ruby and Weiss, who were closer to the GRIMM. It then split again: two turned to engage Blake while one stayed head-to-head with Yang. The closure rate was now nearly a thousand miles an hour; Yang switched from AMRAAMs to Sidewinders, heard the missile growl as the heat sensor locked onto the Beowulf, and fired. The Beowulf fired a second later, and Yang dived, leaving burning flares in her wake. As she rolled out, the GRIMM missiles chasing flares, she saw the falling, burning remains of the Beowulf. “Yang, splash one!”

Two of the GRIMM closed in on Blake, covering the distance just as rapidly as Yang and her kill had, and opened fire with their nose cannons. Had the Beowolves been able to think, they might have been surprised when their shells struck empty air. The Tomcat in front of them shimmered and disappeared. A second later, both Beowolves vanished as both of Blake’s Sidewinders tracked into them. “Blake, splash two.”

Ruby and Weiss followed the same tactic as their friends: Ruby split high and right, putting distance between herself and the Beowolves and setting up for an AMRAAM shot, while Weiss bored in. One Beowulf turned to engage Ruby; the remaining four accepted Weiss’ challenge and faced her. 

The younger Schnee looked at the four Beowolves approaching. Her helmet mounted sight locked onto all four, feeding information to the DUST system on her Typhoon’s nose. “DUST,” Weiss spoke calmly, “engage IRIS.”

Four of the thin missiles salvoed from _Myrtenaster’s_ wings. Weiss climbed and rolled as her own radar warning receivers told her the Beowolves had locked onto her, but the shrill note ceased abruptly as she broke lock. It also ceased because all four IRIS missiles hit their targets, leaving four expanding balls of flame and pieces falling towards the ground. Weiss flew over them as condensation exploded from the canards and wings of her aircraft, as she just touched the speed of sound. “Weiss, splash four.”

There was one Beowulf left, and it locked onto Ruby. By the time its electronic brain processed the lock, it also processed that there was a missile headed towards it. The GRIMM broke off and dived, but the AMRAAM was not fooled by the maneuver. The last Beowulf exploded. “Ruby, splash one! Woo-hoo!”

The entire battle had lasted forty-five seconds.

“Well done, Ruby Flight,” Oobleck radioed. His F-106 was above them, in a lazy circle, his only concession to the battle was that he had increased his altitude to 40,000 feet. “Rejoin and take heading 120 at angels 35.” He descended and the formation got back together at 35,000 feet, now heading northwest again.

Yang came down from the adrenaline rush. It never ceased to amaze her how fast air combat took. _That’s four,_ she told herself, notching on her mental tally. _One more and I’m an ace. Heh. I need to catch up. Rubes has nine now, I think, and Blake’s right behind with eight. And Weiss has…_ Yang keyed her mike. “Hey, I think Weissy just made ace.”

There was silence for a moment as all four of Ruby Flight went through their own totals. “You’re right,” Blake said. “Guess she gets a medal now.”

“Congrats, Weiss!” Ruby laughed. 

Weiss didn’t say anything for a moment, and then she just said “Huh.” They could hear the emotion in her voice, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oobleck's classic F-106 is painted in the same colors as the 120th Fighter-Interceptor Group (Montana Air National Guard), my old hometown's unit. The real F-106 could not carry Sparrow missiles; Oobleck's upgraded his.


	44. Silent Running

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruby Flight continues their long mission over the Dead Zones with Oobleck. He guides them to a secret base in the middle of nowhere, in the heart of GRIMM territory.

_Over the Dunkelman Line_

_Manitoba, United States of Canada_

_2 May 2001_

  
  
They flew on for another thirty minutes, this time with radars on; if there were GRIMM around, they almost certainly knew about Ruby Flight’s presence; whatever mysterious computer network controlled them, they did seem able to communicate by some sort of datalink. But there were no other GRIMM around. 

They made their way into Manitoba, over what was called the Dunkelman Line—the northern version of the Eberle Line in Iowa. Now they were clear of the Dead Zone, and passed New Winnipeg on their left, a walled fortress city that held tenaciously to the edge of the Dead Zone. Oobleck lead them northwest for another half an hour, then ordered them to turn around and head due south. They would follow the Red River to Fargo. To their surprise, Ruby Flight also heard him order a tanker. Yang checked her fuel gauge; she still had enough for another six hours of flight, if not more. Blake, Weiss and Ruby had dropped their external tanks when the battle had begun, but even on internal fuel there should still be plenty. They could easily make Fargo, and even fly back to Beacon. _Maybe Oobleck’s just being safe,_ she thought.

They orbited while the tanker caught up to them; only in the direst of emergencies would tankers venture over the Dead Zones, and even then, it was discouraged. Yang saw the three-engined KC-10A Extender fly over them, then settle down to their altitude. “You first, Yang,” Oobleck said. Yang almost protested that she had enough fuel to fly to the Pacific, but bit back her argument and slid into place. The refueling boom attached to the tail, below the third engine, dropped down. 

Refueling in midair was routine; Yang had done it a hundred times, in every kind of weather. It could still be tricky. She opened the refueling door on her right wingroot and held the F-15 steady. About fifty feet above her, an enlisted boom operator “flew” the boom down. 

“Yang,” Oobleck abruptly said, “why did you choose this line of work?”

Yang lost her concentration for a fraction of a second, and dropped out of the boom’s reach. She throttled back and got back into position. _Why the hell is he asking me that now? I’m busy._

“Green Anchor, hold refueling,” Oobleck radioed. The refueling boom stopped moving. “Answer my question, Yang.”

“Uh, okay. Well, to fight the GRIMM and save—“

“Green Anchor, resume,” Oobleck interrupted.

_Oh, I get it. A test._ Yang smiled; this wasn’t _that_ tough. “Like I said, it’s to fight the GRIMM—“

“No, that is _what_ you do,” Oobleck interrupted again. “I want to know the _why_.”

“Okay.” Yang brought her F-15 forward a bit. Just in front of the boomer’s position on the tanker were two rows of lights. They were mainly for night refueling, but she could use them in the daylight as well. The stripes on the boom also were a visual aid. “The honest reason? I get off on this shit.” 

“Contact,” the boomer broke in. The boom slid home and connected with the refueling port. Now all Yang had to do was keep _Ember Celica_ steady in the tanker’s slipstream, which wasn’t that hard, either—at least in clear sky. Normally, Yang liked to joke around with the boomer and make bad sex puns. Aerial refuelling had more than a bit of a sexual aspect to it, with long probes going into holes, and joking about it was as old as the process itself. With Oobleck around, she decided it wasn’t the best time. 

“Care to explain that a little?” Oobleck said, though he sounded amused.

“I just want to see the world and get wrapped up in all kinds of crazy-ass adventures. And if I help people and kill GRIMM along the way, well, that’s just the awesome icing on the super cake. It’s a win-win, y’know?”

“I see.”

“Disconnect,” said the boomer.

“Yang’s off.” Her fuel tanks topped off, Yang dropped off the boom. She waved at the boomer, who waved back, and rolled off well to one side. 

“Your turn, Weiss.”

For Weiss it was a bit trickier. The Typhoon was European-designed, which meant that it did not use the USAF style boom-plug combination. Instead, the KC-10 streamed a long hose from a pod underneath its right wing, with a basket on the end. A probe popped out of the right side of the nose, and Weiss accelerated to catch up with the basket. Unlike the boom, which was rigid, the basket flopped around in the tanker’s slipstream, which made the hookup a bit tougher. Yang snickered at the thought of Weiss hooking up, but as much as she wanted to say something, she stayed quiet.

Sure enough, Oobleck started in on Weiss. “And you, Weiss? A Schnee? A girl born into fame and fortune such as yourself doesn’t need to be doing this job. You’re certainly not in it for the money. Why risk your life when you could be sitting in a cushy staff position in Germany?”

Weiss closed the distance and caught the basket in a single try. “As you said, Oobleck: I’m a Schnee. I have a legacy of honor to uphold. The Schnees have always served. Once I realized I had a knack for flying and fighting, there was never a question of what I would do with my life. It was my duty.”

“Ah, interesting.” 

Weiss was on the basket longer than Yang had been on the boom, but she had to take on more fuel. When she was done, the Typhoon disconnected, drifted back a bit, then turned hard to clear the way for Blake.

Yang watched Blake approach the basket. Her own aircraft shuddered a bit, as they hit a bit of clear air turbulence. It was nothing to worry about, but now the basket was going up and down more. The Tomcat’s probe popped out of the right side of the nose as well; the Navy used the same style as the Europeans, though Americans would insist that the Europeans used the _Navy_ way of doing it. Yang did not envy Blake: flying the big F-14 and trying to refuel could not be easy. She had to be careful not to chase the basket, which could cause any number of bad things to happen, ranging from looking like an idiot to a midair collision. Yang remembered Neptune Vasillas once describing the process after one of Port’s classes. He had compared it to trying to put a banana up a wildcat’s rear end. 

Yang shook off _that_ mental image. _Bad Yang,_ she told herself. 

Now it was Blake’s turn. “What about you, Blake?” Oobleck asked. “You seem to have a sense of purpose.”

Blake chased the basket for a moment, then settled down. On her third try, she made contact. “There’s too much wrong in the world to just stand by and watch it happen. Someone has to do something about it.”

“Ah, Edmund Burke,” Oobleck observed. “’The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.’ Very good. How do you intend to do something?”

A sudden ridge of air caused the basket to go dangerously upwards, and Blake manipulated stick and throttle to keep from losing the basket, or worse, forcing a brute-force disconnect—which could leave the basket and hose wrapped around _Gambol Shroud’s_ nose, or down an intake. Oobleck quieted, and Blake was able to recover the situation. “I don’t know,” she finally answered, “but I’m…damn this thing…working on it.”

Finally they reached smooth air again, and Blake finished refueling. 

To their surprise, Oobleck took on fuel next, then cleared Ruby in. Everyone listened intently for what Oobleck was going to say, but he said nothing. Ruby had no trouble refueling at all. She dropped off the boom, and Oobleck simply thanked the tanker crew for their help, then led them south again.

The trip from the tanker to Fargo was uneventful. Fargo had been untouched by the Third World War, but it had been overrun by GRIMM a few years after. Today it was nothing but deserted ruins, crumbling after years of harsh winters and lack of maintenance. The roads were empty, overgrown with prairie grass, but even a casual observer might notice that the runways of the former Hector International Airport were curiously clear of overgrowth; a more close inspection would find that the large “cracks” in the runways and taxiways was paint. 

“Hector, Oscar Oscar. Code Applejack, repeat, Applejack,” Oobleck radioed. 

There was a second of silence, and then a new voice came over the radio. “Oscar Oscar, Hector. Roger Applejack. You are cleared into Runway 36 Left. Winds out of the northwest at 15 knots. Ceiling unlimited.”

“Roger.” Oobleck ordered Ruby Flight into trail, with each about five minutes apart from each other. He came in over the ruins of Fargo, over a dilapidated perimeter fence, and landed smoothly on the runway. A dragchute billowed out behind the F-106, slowing it down even more. Once Oobleck reached the end of the runway, he taxied off, trailing the now collapsed dragchute. Ruby, Weiss and Yang landed soon thereafter, and Yang followed Weiss onto the tarmac, near some rusting hangars. To her surprise, the hangar doors opened, and about fifty men and women swarmed out of one hangar to rapidly guide the five aircraft inside. The doors were shut almost as soon as Yang’s tailplanes cleared them. 

Inside, the hangar was clean and maintained. Yang shut down _Ember Celica_ and opened the canopy, letting musty air inside. She disconnected from everything—radio, G-suit, straps, oxygen—and climbed down a ladder placed there by the ground crew. “Good afternoon, Captain,” a sergeant greeted her.

“Hi.” She thumbed back at the F-15. “Check the tires and clean the windshield, okay?”

The sergeant smiled. It was an old joke. “No prob, Captain. We’ll get you some new Sidewinders, too.”

Yang joined the rest of Ruby Flight. “What _is_ this place?” Weiss was asking.

Oobleck pulled off his helmet. His hair was even more of a mess than usual. “This, Oberleutnant, is a very closely guarded secret. There are active bases scattered through the Dead Zones—at least the areas not in danger of radioactivity. The bases are kept secret so no one can betray their presence to air pirates…or other enemies.” He motioned around the hangar. “Only a few buildings are occupied, and personnel stay out of sight as much as possible, so as not to attract GRIMM. There is a limited amount of fuel and weapons available here, but both are indeed limited—which is one reason why we took on fuel from the tanker on the way here.” He waved them out of the hangar, as the ground crew began turning around the aircraft by hand. 

They left the hangar, still indoors, and took an interior corridor to another building. The windows were boarded up; cracks between the boards revealed windows long since bleached into opaqueness. Inside the room were ten bunks, with sleeping bags rolled up on top of them. “Here is where we’ll stay the night, ladies. Since I doubt any of you brought your pajamas with you, you’ll have to sleep in your flight suits. That is my suggestion, in any case.”

Weiss wrinkled her nose. “Are there showers?”

“I believe so. Food will be delivered shortly. Don’t expect anything gourmet. Lieutenant Rose, follow me.” 

Oobleck led her out of the building, through an empty but again well-maintained hangar, to a staircase. They went underground, took a few more turns before Ruby was thoroughly lost, and ended up at a steel door. Oobleck rapped on it, and the door opened to reveal an air policeman. Unlike at Beacon, this man was dressed in full battle gear, with urban-style camouflage, body armor, helmet, and a slung assault rifle. He came to attention. “Hello again, Doctor Oobleck.”

“Ah, hello, Sergeant! The lieutenant and I would like to go up to the tower.”

“Yes, sir, but be careful. We just spotted some GRIMM to the east.”

“I will. Thank you. Come along, Lieutenant.” Oobleck led her past the security man, up a long flight of spiral stairs, into a wide control tower. There were five people inside the tower, all wearing the same uniform as the air policeman, though none seemed armed. Then Ruby noticed the stacked assault rifles on a shelf. The interior of the tower looked like any other control tower she had been in, though it seemed more advanced. The windows were clear and clean, but noticeably thicker than just safety glass.

Oobleck waved her over, got down on hands and knees, and reached through a small opening. A female security forces airman backed out of the opening, rolling aside for Oobleck and then Ruby to crawl through. They ended up in what Ruby recognized as a hide, cleverly disguised to look like an extension of the tower. Perched on the edge and balanced on a fixed position was a .50 caliber sniper rifle, and a huge set of binoculars. “Which would you like?” Oobleck asked.

“I’ll take the fifty!” Ruby replied happily, and laid down behind the weapon. The stock settled into her shoulder, she put a finger aside the trigger, and looked through the large scope. 

“Hold your fire,” Oobleck warned. “Do not fire that rifle unless ordered.” Ruby moved her finger back a little. Her father had taken her and Yang hunting, and Ruby was actually a deadly shot; she had been meaning to qualify for the USAF’s marksmanship ribbon. “Look to your left, about eleven o’clock.” She remembered Taiyang Xiao Long’s advice, and slowly moved the rifle; sudden movements attracted the eye. 

Then she saw them. At first she thought the rifle’s scope was distorting them, but a quick turn of the scope’s focus, and she realized it wasn’t. “What the…”

“Those, Lieutenant Rose, are GRIMM. Ground-based, rather than the aerial ones we’re used to dealing with. Not exactly Ground _Launched,_ but no one felt like changing the acronym.” Ruby glanced at him; Oobleck was staring through the high-powered binoculars. “I’m afraid your sniper rifle will do nothing more than agitate a GRIMM that size. They’re codenamed Goliaths.”

“Whoa.” Ruby had heard of Goliaths, but had never seen one. They were gigantic, three stories high, walking on four articulated legs. The body was squared off, with a turret on top; through the scope, she could see machine guns in turrets front and rear, and below, but the turret was armed with a very large weapon. “What’s it packing?”

“A 100 millimeter high-velocity gun. Three 12.7 millimeter machine guns. And armor thick enough to shrug off anything we’re carrying. To take down a Goliath you need an A-10, or a tank.” Oobleck pulled back from the scope. “We are lucky. Goliath wander around until something attracts them, or they’re ordered somewhere—we don’t know how. They heard the sound of our engines, and came to investigate. Luckily, they’re still about a mile off, and across the Red River. While they can easily ford the river, now that there’s not any noise, they will likely lose interest and wander off.” He rubbed his hair, trying to get it into something that didn’t look like he’d been electrocuted. “Goliath seem to have more of a self-preservation routine than most GRIMM. If they run into something stronger than they are, they will retreat. But before then, they will try to destroy everything they encounter.” 

“If they came over here…”

Oobleck laughed, humorlessly. “There are about seventy people here, Lieutenant. Other than a small stock of Javelin antitank launchers and Stingers, that sniper rifle is the largest weapon they have. Their assault rifles can kill Boarbatusks and Creeps, and enough of them can probably stop a King Taijitu or shoot down a Beowulf. But anything more than that, and they have to call in airstrikes. The closest base is Winnipeg, and they are thirty minutes away. These people here—they know what they face, and their chances of survival. But they are all volunteers.”

“Why risk them out here?” Ruby asked.

This time Oobleck’s laugh was a little more genuine. “A base like this is a godsend to a Huntsman or Huntress low on fuel, on weapons, or options. They can be your lifeline, Lieutenant, but you must realize that they risk their lives for you to _have_ that option. Do not abuse their courage.”

Ruby thought about that for a minute, as Oobleck turned back to watching the Goliaths. Sure enough, the GRIMM began to move east, away from the base. “Doctor Oobleck?”

“Yes?” He did not take his eyes from the binoculars.

“On the tanker…you never asked me why I wanted to become a Huntress.”

“Oh, that.” He moved the binoculars around to face the south. “I already know, Lieutenant.”

Ruby waited for more, but Oobleck was silent. Then she asked, “Okay. Why did _you_ want to become a Huntsman? Why did you quit?”

“Good questions, one I’ve been waiting for you to ask.” Oobleck played with the zoom and focus. “What did you see of Fargo on the approach?”

“Ruins and empty streets.” Ruby found the place creepy; a city of the dead.

“Mm. I see lives that could have been saved.” He leaned back from the scope against the back wall of the hide. “When I was a Huntsman, flying as you and your friends do, it was my job to protect the people. It still is, but while I could’ve continued on with my career and fought our enemies with my aircraft, I thought I would have more of a lasting impact with my mind. As a teacher, I’m able to take knowledge—the most powerful weapon of them all—and place it in the hands of every student that passes through my classroom.” He waved his hand towards the ruins of Fargo, unseen through the hide walls. “I look at this wasteland, and I do see lives that could have been saved, but I also see opportunity: opportunity to study places like this and learn from the tragedy of them, learn what we did wrong and we did right as human and Faunus, and therefore become stronger.” He smiled at her. “I’m still a Huntsman in my own way, Ruby, and there’s nothing else in this world I would rather be. Much like yourself.”


	45. Eve of Destruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much to Yang's chagrin and fear, Ruby volunteers to be bait as Ruby Flight checks out Mountain Glenn on the way back to Beacon. There's nothing there...or is there?
> 
> For want of a nail...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nice, big chapter this time as we finally head into the "season finale" of On RWBY Wings. Everyone's going to be on deck for this fight.

_Joint Base Beacon_

_Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_3 May 2001_

James Ironwood stared out over the flightline. As a general, he was given the corner room of the two-story Visiting Officers’ Quarters; it was slightly larger than the regular VOQ room. He could have insisted on more, but Ironwood was never much for creature comforts. As usual, the tarmac was lit up, but half the hardstands were empty, with both Ruby and Coffee Flights gone. 

There was a knock on his door. He went over and opened it a little. It was Glynda Goodwitch, dressed in her faded flight suit. “I saw your light on. May I come in?”

“Are you sure it won’t harm your reputation?”

Goodwitch laughed. “I think I’ll be fine.” He let her in, and opened the room’s small refrigerator as she closed the door. “Nightcap? Unless you’re flying.”

“Just got back in. I took the combat air patrol tonight; gave Creamer the night off. I was getting a little behind on flight hours. Don’t want to lose my flight status.” She nodded and smiled. “So yes, I would like a nightcap, at that.”

Ironwood withdrew a small bottle of bourbon, and got two plastic cups off the counter. “I don’t have anything to mix it with, but as I recall, you like yours neat.” He shook some ice into the cups, then poured. He handed one cup to her. “Skoal.”

“In your eye.” She took a sip. “Not bad for BX booze.” Goodwitch took another sip. “Why are you up so late? It’s almost 2 AM.”

“Between everything going on and my arm acting up, I couldn’t sleep.” Goodwitch’s eyes flicked down automatically to Ironwood’s right hand. Normally he wore gloves and long-sleeved shirts, but he was wearing a short-sleeved fatigue shirt tonight. His arm was slightly misshapen at the elbow, as if the bone had been broken and not healed right, and it was covered in bright red scar tissue. “There must be a cold front coming in. It always hurts like this when there is.”

“There is. So because you couldn’t sleep, you got up, got completely dressed, and decided to brood menacingly into the distance, like Napoleon before Waterloo.”

“Let’s hope not. He lost.” Ironwood pointed down. “Besides, I’m not _completely_ dressed. I don’t have any shoes on.”

Goodwitch laughed despite herself, remembering her claim that Nora Valkyrie was not completely naked because her socks were still on. She took a longer sip of bourbon. It left a pleasant burning in her mouth. “So what’s wrong?”

“Ozpin.” He finished his own liquor. “There’s something he’s not telling us, Glynda. I’ve known and trusted the man for years, but there’s something…just not right.” He sat down on the bed. “And it’s not just Ozpin. The Army and the CIA have been all over the Ohio Dead Zones for over a week now, and nothing. Torchwick and the White Fang have disappeared, and that’s not like them. The CIA has completely lost track of Sienna Khan. Then we get that report of that smuggler’s train…I just have to wonder.”

Goodwitch finished her bourbon as well, and tossed the cup in the garbage. “The photos that Lieu—ah, Captain Belladonna took showed nothing.”

“Or we don’t know what to look for. You were involved in the evacuation of Mountain Glenn, right? Wasn’t most of the settlement underground?”

“It was. And the few people who evacuated were the only survivors. Everyone else died in those warrens when GRIMM overran it.” She saw where his train of thought was going. “It doesn’t make any sense, James. Assuming Torchwick and the Fang somehow got across the entire Midwest without us knowing it, why set up shop so close to Beacon?”

“Maybe because it _is_ so close to Beacon. Remember that someone attacked us the night before last.”

Goodwitch put a hand on his shoulder. “If it will make you sleep better, Barty Oobleck told me that he and Ruby Flight intended to do another flyover of Mountain Glenn on their way back from Hector this morning.”

“I guess that’s better than nothing. The Army’s not going to send a team into the Twin Cities unless there’s solid proof. I guess I can’t blame them,” Ironwood sighed. “There’s GRIMM there, and radiation.” 

She bent forward and kissed his forehead. “You’re a good person, James. You’ve always made the right decisions, even when they were the hard ones. But you’ve got to trust people—Ozpin, Calavera, me.” 

“I suppose.” Seeing Goodwitch’s very pleasant face gazing down at him, Ironwood tried a smile. “I don’t suppose you would…”

Goodwitch started for the door. She knew that if she allowed Ironwood to finish his sentence, she _would_ stay. And that would open up an entire chest of feelings she had sealed away since that last night in Norway. “I can’t, James, and you know why. Good night.” She said it as gently as she could, but it was still a dismissal. 

The door shut behind her. 

_Covert Base Hector_

_North Dakota Dead Zone, United States of Canada_

_3 May 2001_

Ruby Flight was gathered in the main hangar—or at least three of them were. Ruby was still asleep, and Yang, Weiss and Blake had decided to let her sleep. While the rest had turned in early, Ruby had volunteered to keep a watch with the base personnel. It hadn’t been necessary, but Ruby had done it anyway. They sat in a corner of the hangar, on the floor.

Weiss opened up her MRE. She withdrew the packets and the heating element, and a pouch containing some sort of beverage. “What did you get?” Yang asked.

“Hashbrowns with bacon, peppers and onions. And some kind of brown sugar Pop-Tart and pound cake. And I guess this is fruit punch?”

“Bug juice,” Blake supplied, using the Marine nickname for it. “I got the same thing. How about you, Yang?”

“Pork sausage patty. And a strawberry Pop-Tart! Oooh. Living large here. I have some orange bug juice.”

“Trade you,” Weiss offered. 

“Deal, but I want the orange bug juice.”

“Good enough for me.”

They heated up their MREs, watching as the ground crew put the finishing touches on their aircraft. Sunlight streamed in through the high hangar windows. “Hey, Weiss,” Yang mumbled around her Pop-Tart, which threatened to suck out every bit of moisture in her mouth. “Why do you think Oobleck asked us why we wanted to be fighter pilots?”

“To test us.” Weiss was surprised to find the pork patty to be decent, if a bit chewy. 

“Did you mean what you said?” Blake asked. “About honor and being a Schnee?”

“Yes.” Weiss regarded Blake over her fruit punch. “The Schnee name did not begin with my father, and it won’t end with him. We have always served Germany, even back when we were known as the von Schnees. His idea of service may be flawed, but I’d like to think mine isn’t, and although initially I just wanted to serve Germany and prove myself…” She smiled at them. “I think I’ve learned a lot already about the world to know that I serve something far greater than just my country and my family. I’m going to make things right. If I had not learned to fly and was merely stuck overseeing Schnee business, I would not be doing that.” She pointed her fruit juice at Blake. “What about what _you_ said?”

Blake sniffed a laugh. “I didn’t say much. I was too busy trying to get that probe in the basket.” She noticed Yang turning red. “What?”

“Nothing. These peppers have a kick.”

Blake suspected Yang was lying, but ignored it. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking about it. All my life, I’ve been fighting for what I thought was right. Hell, it _is_ right. But I was going about it all wrong. I followed the wrong people, who didn’t want justice, but revenge. And became the very things they supposedly hated.” Blake thought of Adam, but was pleasantly surprised that she did not stumble over her words. The emotion was there, but it was muted. “So when I had to come here to hide, the government offered me anywhere as a cover. Well, I wanted to be a fighter pilot, because I love to fly, and I wanted to be a Marine, because they’re regarded as noble, and the best.” She shrugged. “I hope I’ve lived up to that, but I’m not really sure what I want to do after Vytal Flag is over.”

“Like you said, you’re working on it,” Weiss said. “You’re not one to back down, Blake.”

Blake frowned. “You know what the funny part is, Weiss? I almost _always_ back down. I always run and hide.” She pointed to her ribbon. “I’m hiding right now, and it doesn’t make any damn sense.” She pointed to one enlisted female helping to load a Sidewinder onto Weiss’ Typhoon. “She’s a Faunus. So why don’t I just take off this stupid ribbon?”

“Why don’t you?” Yang asked.

“Because I’m scared, Yang. That people will stop seeing me as Blake Belladonna or Captain Blake Belladonna, USMC. They’ll just see me as a Faunus. I’m hiding. I’m hiding from…everyone, it seems.”

“You’re not hiding from us.” Weiss reached over and touched Blake’s hand. “Baby steps, Blake. Take it off when you’re comfortable doing so. You don’t have to run and hide anymore.”

Seeing that Blake was starting to get upset, Yang began speaking. “At least you two have a goal. Me, I just want to fly around, kill stuff, and then go back and start the process over. Don’t really have a goal, and I don’t care what happens tomorrow. I wasn’t kidding Oobleck when I said I get off on this shit. But what the hell am I going to do when I’m too old to do it anymore?”

“You could be like Oobleck,” Weiss said with a smile.

“Me? A teacher?” Yang thought about it for a moment. “I can’t see it.”

“Weirdly, I can,” Blake snickered. “So what about Ruby? Oobleck didn’t even ask about her.”

“Ruby?” Yang sipped at her bug juice. “She’s like you guys. Ever since she was a kid, she’s dreamed about being the heroine, like in the books. She’s not in it for medals or anything; Ruby just wants to be the person who saves the day. Ever since she could barely talk, that’s what she’s wanted.” Yang made a face. “Man, I can see why they call this bug juice. Leaves a gross aftertaste. I wish I’d brought some Listerine.”

“I have a little something.” Blake reached into her overnight bag—which she had thoughtfully brought and no one else had—and withdrew a flask. Yang’s hands went to her mouth. “Why, Captain Belladonna!” she said, in a fair approximation of Ozpin’s voice. “Is that illegal liquor? I am shocked, young miss, positively shocked!”

Blake rolled his eyes. “It’s not illegal unless Ruby drinks it. I actually brought it because it can have medicinal properties.” It was Weiss’ and Yang’s turn to roll their eyes. “I did, dammit!” Blake set the flask down between them. “Anyway, we forgot to celebrate Weiss making ace yesterday.”

“That’s right, we did!” All of them jumped as Oobleck and a bleary-eyed Ruby arrived. Oobleck had a thermos of steaming coffee and four plastic cups. The bug juice was quickly forgotten as four cups were filled. “Ah!” Oobleck stopped them before they could drink. “First we celebrate Weiss’ acedom.” He handed her the flask. “Horrido!” he toasted her with his thermos.

Weiss smiled in understanding. “Horrido!” she replied, and took a drink. 

“Horri…what?” Ruby was still trying to wake up. 

“It was what German hunters used to yell when they had downed prey,” Oobleck explained, finger raised. “Similar to the English tally-ho, except the latter was only used when the hunter _sighted_ their quarry. It was adopted by German pilots in the Second World War, and possibly the First.”

“It’s not Nazi, is it? I don’t want to be toasting in Nazi,” Yang said. 

Weiss slapped the flask into her chest. “It’s not Nazi, you dolt.”

Yang winked, to show she was only joking. “Horrido or whatever!” She took a drink and handed it to Blake.

Blake raised it to toast Weiss. “Horrido.” She took a drink, but hesitated to hand it to Ruby. Oobleck noticeably found something interesting on the ceiling of the hangar. Ruby took it, slammed it back, and stuck out her tongue. “Horrible.”

“Horrido,” Weiss corrected her.

“No, this stuff is horrible. Where did you get this?” Blake only shrugged. Ruby did the same and handed it to Oobleck, who finished the flask. 

“Marine medicinal liquor,” Blake said with a straight face. She shook a bag at Ruby. “Gourmet MRE?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Ruby tore open the MRE and began sorting it out. Oobleck accepted one as well. Once they were eating as well, Ruby spoke up. “I have an idea about today.” It came out as “Iadf haff fan fordea bouf todaf,” so the rest of them had to wait until Ruby was able to masticate the pork patty and repeat herself. 

“Let’s hear it,” Oobleck said, curious. 

“We’re checking out Mountain Glenn, right? Even though you didn’t find anything there last time, Blake?”

Blake looked down. “It’s just a feeling, Ruby.”

“Sorry, that came out wrong. I mean, it’s on the way home anyway, right?” Seeing that Oobleck was getting a bit impatient, she quickly continued, “So I head out ahead of the formation at about, oh, ten or twelve miles ahead. I’ll go over low, see if I see anything. If Torchwick and his boys are there, maybe I’ll stir up something. They won’t open up on a two ship, but they see a single, and they might just take a shot.”

“That is a super hard pass, Ruby,” Yang warned. She didn’t like it when Blake hung her tail out to get shot at; she positively hated the idea of her little sister doing it. 

“I’m a grown woman, Yang,” Ruby told her. Yang stared daggers at her sister, but said nothing. “Doctor Oobleck, I want to give it a try. If there’s nothing there, nothing will happen.”

Oobleck hesitated, then nodded. “All right. But we’ll make it six miles, no more. If you see anything and you don’t have time for a contact report, say…” He thought for a moment. “Mona Lisa. Yes, that will do fine.”

“Mona Lisa. Got it. You hear me say that, something’s definitely wrong.”

The rest of the breakfast was eaten in silence. Yang kept looking at Ruby, as if by sheer force of will she could keep her sister from doing this. She told herself there was nothing at Mountain Glenn; she and Blake had been over it three times. But that did nothing to melt the ball of ice her stomach had become.

Finally it was time. They threw away their MRE bags, then separated to preflight their aircraft. Weiss noticed as she came out from under _Myrtenaster’s_ nose that there were now five kill marks beneath the canopy. She climbed up on the ladder and ran her hand over them. “Who did this?” she asked.

“Oh, I did, ma’am.” It was the Faunus, who had a thick American Southern accent. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I definitely don’t mind.” Weiss got into the cockpit, and the Faunus helped her strap in. She met eyes with the enlisted woman, and held out a hand, reading the nametape on her uniform. “Thank you, Sergeant Malikov.” 

“My pleasure, ma’am. Y’all come back now soon, y’hear?” Malikov winked and climbed back down the ladder.

An hour and a half later, Ruby was cruising at 25,000 feet, radar on, her head constantly moving. The skies were empty; unlike the day before, the clouds were scattered to broken. It would be raining at Beacon by the afternoon. For the fourth time, she radioed Regency, the AWACS orbiting to the south over Iowa. “Regency, Ruby Lead. Any paints my area?”

“Negative, Ruby. There’s six Beowolves down to the southwest at 70 miles, no threat. Juniper is vectored to intercept.”

_Good luck, guys,_ Ruby thought. _It’s okay,_ she reassured herself. _They can handle six Beowolves, no sweat. Anyways, they’ve got Goodwitch with them._ She was tempted to go south and help, but that wasn’t her mission. 

Her mission was to be bait, and she had volunteered for it. 

Another sweep of her radar showed nothing. Unfortunately, her older radar was a bit limited on ground targets. She had spotted the Goliaths from the day before near the Twin Cities—or maybe it was a different “herd”—but her F-16 was no threat to them, and they had ignored her, as she was well out of range. She glanced behind her, and saw two contrails. Normally, military aircraft avoided the contrail zone, as it was a giant white arrow pointing to their location, but Weiss and Blake were the ones contrailing. It was added bait to the hook, and reassurance to Ruby that her friends weren’t far away. Yang had been noticeably laconic during the flight checks, which meant her sister was mad at her. 

But true leaders never asked someone to do what they were not willing to do themselves. Her father had said that. Uncle Qrow wouldn’t have asked someone else to play bait. Summer Rose definitely wouldn’t have. At that moment, Ruby felt the closest to her mother since the day Summer had left, never to return.

_Well…here I go, mama._ Ruby pushed up the throttle a little and gave a minute push forward on the stick. The F-16 began a gradual descent. She would come in at two thousand feet. 

_Mountain Glenn_

_Minnesota Dead Zone, United States of Canada_

_3 May 2001_

“Quiet!” Roman Torchwick shouted. Instantly, the White Fang loading crates into the boxcars stopped. Everyone listened, and it didn’t take Faunus hearing to detect the growing sound of a jet engine. “Take cover! Take cover!” Torchwick jumped into one of the boxcars, and looked frantically for Neo. She had come out to take some fresh air, an umbrella over one shoulder in case it rained. White Fang dropped under railcars, behind trees, any place with cover. Torchwick saw Ilia Amitola in the open, but she went prone and disappeared, her chameleon talent rendering her practically invisible. Finally, he spotted Neo as she rolled under a rusted boxcar. 

He stole a glance to the northwest, where the noise was coming from. A dot appeared against the broken overcast, gradually growing into the shape of a F-16. He grabbed a burly Faunus by his jerkin, the leader of the work party. “Perry, radio down to the bunker, and tell them we’re being overflown again!”

Ruby dipped a wing as she shot over Mountain Glenn at five hundred miles an hour. At that speed, the ground was just above a blur, but she was trusting her eyes. Just in case there _was_ someone down there, she wasn’t going to make it any easier on them. 

A group of old warehouses went by underneath, followed by an old railyard. There was a train sitting on the tracks, complete down to two locomotives attached to the front. “Nothing,” she said aloud. “Guess Blake was right.”

Then she spotted movement, so small that probably she would have missed it had she not been looking at that exact spot. Ruby popped her speedbrakes just for a moment, shedding speed. Someone who could spot stars in the daytime could see a pink umbrella bouncing on the ground.

“Shit,” Torchwick whispered, although there was no way the F-16 pilot could hear him, even if he screamed at the top of his lungs. Neo, in her haste to get undercover, had dropped her umbrella. The breeze had caught the extended umbrella, which acted like a sail as it scooted across the ground.

Torchwick, hidden behind a box in the railroad car, looked out at the F-16 as it flew past. Red wingtips and spine. “Little Red, Little Red,” he breathed with an ironic smile.

_An umbrella? Out here, after all these years?_ Ruby accelerated again and climbed. She flew southeast for a bit, almost to the Mississippi. Something didn’t feel right. She turned around and dropped down again.

“Ruby, Yang, what the fuck?” Yang’s voice was higher than normal. She had been watching her sister with her radar.

“Going back in. I think I saw something.”

“Ruby, wait!” There was no acknowledgement. “Goddammit!” Yang shouted, and slammed the throttle to the stops, breaking formation with Blake. Cursing, Blake accelerated as well, her Tomcat’s wings raking back as she caught up with Yang.

Neo reached out and snatched her umbrella back under cover. Some of the White Fang had crawled back out. “Stay down!” Ilia yelled. “They’re coming back!” 

Torchwick saw Perry raise his assault rifle as the F-16 came by, a little slower this time. _“No!”_ Torchwick screamed, but Perry’s finger tightened on the trigger.

Ruby looked out the right side this time. The umbrella was gone. “Huh. Great, now I’m seeing—“ Then she saw the muzzle flash from the boxcar. 

The White Fang saw their commander open fire, and wrongly assumed that someone had given an order. To Torchwick’s horror, several more White Fang rolled out from under cover and opened fire as well; one, in an act of utter stupidity, fired a RPG at the F-16, despite it being already out of range. The only thing she had accomplished was to leave a thin smoke trail, and removing any doubt from Ruby’s mind that she was under fire.

Ruby had never been under ground fire before; all she saw was several muzzle flashes, but she couldn’t see any bullets, since none of the White Fang were kind enough to load tracers. She felt something hit _Crescent Rose,_ and panicked. “Oh shit!” she cried. “Mona Lisa! Mona Lisa!” In her panic, she had forgotten to switch back to Ruby Flight’s frequency, but was still on Guard, the frequency she had used to talk to the AWACS. As a result, the call went out to everyone in the Vale Defense Sector. 

Below, in the bunker, Arthur Watts had been listening the entire time. As soon as Perry’s call came in, he switched on a radio mast cleverly disguised as a tree. He was switching frequencies, trying to find the right one, when he heard Ruby’s call.

Watts had no idea what Mona Lisa meant, but assumed it could be nothing good. With a swipe of another switch, he raised a larger mast from where it had laid perpendicular on the ground. Before it was even in place, another switch turned it on. 

“Ruby! Ruby—“ Yang winced as her radio net was filled with static. 

150 miles to the south, Juniper Flight flew in a rough diamond. They were still a good hundred miles from the Beowolves, so it would still be a few minutes before they were in range for even long-range missile shots. 

Jaune heard Ruby’s call. He switched frequencies to Guard. “Ruby, Jaune. Say again?” There was nothing but static. He was overriden by the AWACS frantically trying to contact first Ruby, then Ruby Flight in general. Jaune waited until there was a break in the calls. “Regency, Juniper Lead. What’s going on?”

“Unknown, Juniper. We’re getting a lot of jamming from over there. Stand by.”

Jaune switched back to his flight’s frequency, but hesitated before sending out his next radio call. “Pyrrha, Jaune. Do you know what Mona Lisa is?”

“Other than the painting, negative. Ruby sounded scared, though.”

Jaune thought for a moment. Ruby might be excitable, but she was not panicky. For her to give that call meant something was going on, and jamming…he checked his map display, then turned on his radar. At the edge of the radar picture was electronic snow. _There’s nothing there. That’s the Twin Cities. Everything’s dead there._

“Jaune, Ren. Ruby Flight is exceptionally capable of handling themselves.” Goodwitch, Jaune noticed, remained silent. She was letting Jaune figure this out for himself.

And he did. “Juniper Flight, Jaune. Change of mission. Come right to 75 degrees, let’s push it up. Keep your tanks on until we find out what’s going on.” He cursed silently; that was going to leave Nora behind. “Nora, catch up as you can.”

“Roger that!” Nora sounded happy. 

“Jaune, Ren; I’ll stay with Nora.” 

“Roger, Ren,” Jaune replied. He hated to cut his striking power by another third, but leaving Nora alone was not a good idea either, no matter how confident she was. 

“Jaune, Witch Lead.” _Oh, here it comes,_ Jaune thought. Goodwitch was going to be angry about Jaune suddenly flying off on a hunch. “I’ll handle the Beowolves. Send report ASAP. Good luck. Witch Lead out.” 

Goodwitch watched the four aircraft of Juniper Flight peel away; Jaune and Pyrrha went supersonic and were gone to view in an instant. Nora was giving all her A-10 everything it was worth, climbing into thinner air as Ren kept pace. She checked her own display. “Mountain Glenn,” she remarked to no one in particular, then touched her mike button. “Regency, Witch Lead. Relay to Beacon. Recommend scramble alert five, target Mountain Glenn.” She dropped her external tanks and accelerated past Mach One herself, to close the Beowolves quickly. 

“Roger that, Witch. Be advised, we’ve just picked up new targets approaching from the west. We’re not able to lock on very well, so we’re guessing here.” Regency paused. “Classify new threat as two Nevermores, bearing two zero one, range one hundred, angels twenty.”

Torchwick, despite being half a foot shorter than Perry, punched the Faunus in the face. “You fucking _idiot!_ As soon as that F-16 gets off a contact report, everyone in the fucking Remnant is going to know we’re here!” Perry was more surprised than hurt, and just rubbed his jaw in shock. 

The thief jumped out of the boxcar. In the far distance, he could see the F-16 climbing, and two more specks. “We’re blown,” he said. He whirled back on Perry. “Get the train started.”

“Not everything’s loaded—“

“I don’t give a flying fuck!” Torchwick yelled. “We stand a better chance of survival on the move than we do standing still! That train is a rolling bomb, and Little Red’s going to come back with her friends and strafe the shit out of us! Now go, goddammit!” Perry nodded quickly and began running towards the front of the train. He saw Ilia, her skin turning back into its normal soft brown rather than the darker shade it had been against the ground. “Amitola, get your chameleon ass back down in the bunker and tell your High Leader that we’re starting the party early! And scramble our fighters so we stand something resembling a chance!” He reached down and hauled Neo to her feet. “Neo, go with her. Tell that Taurus asshole it’s time for you to get your surprise.” He hurriedly pressed his lips to hers, enjoyed the feeling for a moment, and then pushed her along. “I’m borrowing your Sea Harrier!” Then he was running as well.

Neo opened her mouth to say something, couldn’t say it, so she turned and ran after Ilia. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried to make the MREs as accurate as I could.
> 
> In this AU, Ironwood doesn't have artificial limbs, because technology in 2001 wouldn't quite give him what he has in canon RWBY. So he's just badly scarred. Earlier in the story, it was mentioned that Ironwood was injured during Operation Eagle Claw, the failed rescue mission of the American hostages in Tehran in 1980. (Which would mean that the radical Muslim Revolution of 1979 happened in this timeline as well.)


	46. Mona Lisa Overdrive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle begins as the White Fang train heads for La Crosse, and their fighters engage Ruby Flight. There's GRIMM on the way as well, and Sienna Khan's plan hinges on Beacon not reacting quickly.
> 
> But no plan survives contact with the enemy.

_Mountain Glenn_

_Minnesota Dead Zone, United States of Canada_

_3 May 2001_

  
Ilia Amitola ran for all she was worth, down the tunnel, yelling at the guards to leave the doors open; there was no point in shutting them now. Adam Taurus met her at the second gate. “What the hell is going on?”

“The Air Force found us, that’s what!” She stopped only for a second. “Torchwick’s getting the train started. We’ve got to get in the air! Where’s Sienna?”

“Right here.” Sienna came up to them. “Where’s Perry?”

“With the train.”

“Damn!” She took a deep breath. Perry was to lead the strike force against Beacon, but that assault was also supposed to happen at night. In broad daylight, it would never work. It was all coming apart. “They’ll never make it to La Crosse.”

“We still might.” Adam took Ilia’s shoulder. “Scramble everything we have, and put an umbrella over the train. Beacon isn’t on combat alert; it will take them time to figure out what’s going on. Inertia is something the humans have to overcome, not us. If the train can make it to La Crosse, the military will be dealing with fires and destruction to worry about a small force of helicopters slipping through. We can ground the strike force in the woods and still hit Beacon tonight.” He saw Neo, out of breath as she came to a stop. “You, Neo, go with Ilia.”

“Surprise?” Neo puffed out.

Adam smiled. “It’s there, under the tarp next to _Wilt._ Go! Hurry!” The two women dashed off, Ilia grabbing anyone who was flight qualified on the way. 

“You go too,” Sienna told Adam. “I’ll handle things here. Good luck.”

He sketched a salute to her and ran off as well. Sienna turned and jogged back into the warren. “Everyone!” she yelled out. “Pack up what you have and load it into the helicopters! Anything too heavy gets left behind! I want as many of you as possible on that train! Hurry!” She fought her way through the press of Faunus her orders caused, and looked for Watts.

She found him in the central office, hunched over a laptop. “Watts, we have to go. The Americans found us.”

“I’m aware of that,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ve activated a broad-spectrum jammer. That should keep them from getting off a contact report.” He didn’t mention the strange Mona Lisa call.

“Good work.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Maybe we can still pull this off…”

“Hopefully.” Watts leaned back in his chair. “I am also bringing us some reinforcements. It will take them a little time to get here, but it will definitely distract the United States Armed Forces.” He pointed at the laptop. “The jammer doesn’t just jam communications. It also acts as a homing beacon.”

“For what?”

Watts grinned up at her under his mustache, a grin so savage that even Sienna was intimidated. “GRIMM, my dear. It’s going to attract every GRIMM within 200 miles.”

Her eyes widened in shock and horror. “Are you out of your mind? They’ll all come here!”

“Not so, High Leader. The GRIMM will home in on this signal, true…but they’ll soon sight better prey, in the form of the very loud noises of explosions and the equally large numbers of targets. Beacon will be dealing with a veritable horde of GRIMM bearing down on La Crosse, and even if they blow the bridges, most will be able to cross the Mississippi.”

Sienna thought for a moment. It wasn’t exactly what they had planned, but certainly GRIMM would provide quite the distraction. “Good work, Dr. Watts. I am quite impressed. Now we just need to activate Black Queen.”

Watts’ grin faded. He glanced at his laptop for a moment, then returned his eyes to hers. “No.” 

“Pardon me?”

“No, Miss Khan. I will not activate Black Queen.”

“I suppose I wasn’t clear enough.” Sienna reached behind her and pulled out a pistol. She leveled it between Watts’ eyes. “I wasn’t asking, Doctor.”

_Over Mountain Glenn_

_Minnesota Dead Zone, United States of Canada_

_3 May 2001_

“Yang? Yang?” Ruby tried the radio, and it was nothing but hissing static. _Crescent Rose_ was above the overcast now. She turned and joined up with her sister, looked across at Yang, and pointed to her helmet. Yang shook her head; she couldn’t hear either. Blake came up on the other side, and held up a whiteboard she had pulled from her kneepad. JAMMED? LOCATION?

“How the hell should I know?” Ruby said aloud, though there was no way Blake could hear her. All Ruby could do was shake her head and point downwards. 

Weiss had figured it out as well. She flew over the rest of Ruby Flight. “DUST,” she instructed. “Home on jam.” The DUST system switched on the seeker heads in two of her AMRAAMs. The missiles were air-to-air, but they were able to lock onto sources of jamming. Under normal circumstances, this would mean aircraft with electronic countermeasure pods, but Weiss guessed it might work on ground sources as well. Her HUD showed the direction of the jamming. With no way of warning the others, she simply rolled and dived through the undercast. Ruby, seeing her wingmate, accelerated past Yang and Blake to follow Weiss down.

Oobleck, for his part, climbed. There was a possibility that the jamming might be less at higher altitude. He pushed the old F-106 to its ceiling before switching on his radio. “Pinetree, Oscar Oscar, come in.” There was just the hint of a voice below the hissing of static, but not enough. Then he remembered the AWACS. “Regency, Oscar Oscar, come in.”

“Osc…Rege…barely…status…” The radio popped and hissed, but it was better than nothing.

“Regency, if you can hear me, we have a situation at Mountain Glenn. Repeat, Mountain Glenn. How are you reading me?” To Oobleck’s frustration, there was nothing but static.

_Joint Base Beacon_

_Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_3 May 2001_

Ozpin rushed into the control tower, limping as he did so. “What’s going on?”

The senior controller spun in his chair. “We’re not sure, sir! We had some sort of weird radio call from Ruby Flight, inbound over Minnesota—“

“What kind of call?” Ozpin cut him off.

“Something about Mona Lisa. It was from Ruby Lead.”

Mona Lisa didn’t ring any bells for Ozpin. “How did she sound?”

The master sergeant hesitated. “Honestly? Scared shitless, sir.” Ozpin’s eyebrows went up in alarm. Ruby Rose did not scare easily. “There’s massive broadband jamming from the Twin Cities area, and Colonel Goodwitch ordered us to scramble the alert five.” He pointed to the runway, where Cardinal Flight was moving out to the runway. “We’ve got that, but we’ve heard nothing else from Ruby Flight. Juniper is moving north to help, but they’re a ways off—“

“Scramble everything. Now. I don’t want anything on the ground.” It was a lesson learned time and time again, Ozpin told himself: never be caught on the ground.

The senior controller didn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir.” He pressed a red button on his console, and alarms went off across Beacon. 

“And notify the 1st Armored. Just in case.” Ozpin went off to find Ironwood.

“Active air scramble. This is no drill.” 

The loudspeakers blared the bland announcement, as if the warbling klaxons weren’t enough. Cinder came out of her VOQ room, quickly joined by Emerald and Mercury. Emerald looked at Cinder in shock. “You don’t think—“

“Something’s going on,” Mercury said, rather stating the obvious. “You think Sienna or Torchwick jumped the gun?”

“In broad daylight?” Emerald exclaimed. “She’d be insane. There’s still five days to go.”

“So? What do we do?” Mercury asked.

Another door burst open, and Ruth Lionheart burst out, zipping up her flight suit, her mane a fright wig, damp with water and a hint of shampoo. “Don’t just stand there!” she shouted at the rest of them. “Get one up!”

Cinder watched the Faunus dash out of the VOQ. “She’s right.” She zipped up her own flight suit. “Let’s go.”

The dispersal area was utter pandemonium. Ground crews scrambled to load missiles and ammunition into gun drums; there was no way to know what the threat was, or if it was coming straight at them. They worked quickly and furiously: no one wanted to be caught with a tarmac full of aircraft loaded with fuel and weapons. Shouts and curses were drowned out as Cardinal Flight took off.

Coco Adel ran to her Mirage. Already there were Sidewinders on the wingtip rails. The crew chief threw her a quick salute. “Chief!” she shouted. “Do you have some time to load something?”

“Not much,” the crew chief replied. “What did you need?”

“I saw a Pave Claw the other day. Can you load it on the centerline?” Coco had a hunch that she would be needing something against ground targets. 

“Take us a minute to get it out of the bunker, but yeah.”

“Do it. Hurry.” The last was unnecessary, and the chief quickly sent two airmen headed for the underground storage bunker, where munitions were kept. “Yatsuhachi!” The big Japanese pilot turned. “Go on without me! I’ll catch up! You’re in command!”

“ _Hai, wakarimasu!”_ He ran towards his F-2. 

_Over Mountain Glenn_

_Minnesota Dead Zone, United States of Canada_

_3 May 2001_

Weiss kept one eye on the ground and one eye on the threat display, trying to find where the jamming was coming from. She saw figures running across a bridge over the Mississippi, but ignored them; they were no threat. Out of the corner of one eye, she saw muzzle flashes from small arms, but ignored that as well. 

_There it is. That tower, it has to be that,_ she told herself. It was thin and tall, and would be almost impossible to hit with her cannon, especially since her guns were calibrated for air targets, rather than ground. Still, she had to try. Weiss leveled out much lower than she would have liked, center the tower in her gunsight, and opened fire. The cannon shells kicked up divots from the ground and from atop the big warehouse, but she saw a few sparks that showed hits on the tower. Then she was past, barely clearing it. Weiss weaved and dropped flares, just in case someone on the ground had a shoulder-launched missile, and climbed away. She spotted the train pulling out, and dodged away as a lot more muzzle flashes lit up on the train.

“Are you going to pull the trigger or not?” Watts asked Sienna. He sounded bored. 

“Turn on Black Queen,” she snarled.

“For the second and last time: no. And if you kill me, you will never get to use it. I’m the only one who knows the activation code.”

Sienna thought about shooting Watts anyway, out of spite, but lowered the pistol. “Go to hell.”

“More than likely, but in the meantime, let me explain why.” Watts pointed in the general direction of the surface. “Do you think Torchwick will get the train to La Crosse? Do you _really_ think he’s going to pull it off? Because I don’t. I know a little about this Ozpin fellow, and he will throw everything Beacon has at that train. So will General Ironwood. By all means we can try, and perhaps some miracle will occur and the plan will work. But I believe it will fail, and I think you’re smart enough, Sienna Khan, to realize the same thing.”

“Damn,” Sienna hissed, because she knew he was right.

“Relax,” Watts said. “This still works to our advantage. Ozpin will think this was our main attack, while never suspecting that we can try again later, when their guard is down. _Then_ I can activate Black Queen, and Beacon is ours for the taking.”

Sienna slowly nodded, and holstered the pistol. “Very well, Doctor.”

His laptop beeped, and Watts turned to face it. “Well, that’s not exactly good.” He pointed at the screen. “The jammer’s been damaged. It’s only jamming one channel.” His smile remained. “Still, the GRIMM are still following the signal.”

Neo, Ilia and Adam hit the asphalt on the bridge as the Typhoon roared over them, followed by the F-16. They half expected the fighter to strafe them as well, but it was past without firing. Several of the White Fang troops opened fire on it, with more enthusiasm than accuracy. They got to their feet. Adam looked up at a second pair of engine noises. Just under the undercast were the shapes of a F-15 and a F-14. In the weak sunlight, he could tell the F-15 was painted the standard dark gray, but the F-14 was painted black.

He smiled, though the smile was tempered by his right hand tightening on his sword hilt. “Hello, Blake.” He jumped, however, when a hand slapped his rear end. He whirled on Neo, his sword halfway out of the scabbard. “Move your ass!” Neo shouted as she ran past.

Adam spared one more glance at the F-14 as it flew over, six thousand feet above him, and continued running. Ilia was far ahead, in an all out sprint. As he reached the opposite bank, the hangar doors rolled open and two MiG-21s rolled out, headed for the runway, followed by two more.

There were four hangars on what had been South St. Paul Municipal Airport. The fourth, the largest, was the one that Adam and Neo ran into. Inside were four more MiG-21s, Ilia’s F-5, Adam’s Moonslice, and the tarp covered “surprise.” Ilia was supervising several White Fang troops in taking the tarp off.

It revealed a bright red F-22 Raptor. 

Neo skidded to a stop, her mouth open. Adam couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s yours,” he said. “A gift from your boyfriend. It is on loan, however.” She turned at that. “It’s Cinder Fall’s, so she would probably appreciate it if you didn’t scratch the paint.”

“Mine?” Neo asked hesitantly.

“Mm-hm. For now.”

Neo actually clapped her hands in happiness, and to Adam’s distinct surprise, she gave him a quick hug. Already, another White Fang was running to Neo with her pink-trimmed brown flight suit and multicolored helmet. Adam went to help her get strapped in. 

“I’ll preflight _Wilt!”_ Ilia yelled at him. Adam gave her a quick nod and continued to help with the F-22. Once he was occupied, Ilia faded partially from sight, her skin camouflaged against the black fuselage of the Moonslice. Quietly, she opened an inspection panel.

Blake watched as Weiss and Ruby climbed away. She saw the train moving below, but there was so much forest hanging over the track, it would be impossible to hit it. Much like a hunter, she would have to wait for it to break cover. _And then what?_ Blake asked herself. They were configured for air to air fighting. 

Mainly out of frustration, she reached forward and switched radio frequencies. To her surprise, the static faded once she was on Guard channel. “Weiss did it,” she breathed, then rocked her wings to get Yang’s attention. Once she did, she scrawled SWITCH GUARD on her kneeboard and held it up to the canopy. Yang nodded, and a second later, her voice came up on the radio. “Blake, Yang, how are you reading me on Guard?”

“Five-by, Yang. Catch up with Ruby and Weiss and let them know.”

“Roger.” The F-15 accelerated to meet up with the other two aircraft, which had begun to circle. Blake began to turn as well, but then caught movement on the ground. She leveled out, switched on the TCS beneath her nose, and zoomed in. “Oh shit,” she said, then activated her mike. “Regency, this is Ruby Four, are you receiving me?”

The relief in the AWACS controller’s voice was palpable. “Yeah, we receive you, Ruby Four. Situation?”

“We’ve got a train full of bad guys heading southwest, but that may not be our biggest problem. I’ve got one…no…shit,” Blake cursed. “Two Death Stalkers, at my two o’clock low. Heading southeast.”

“A lot of that going around, Ruby Four,” Regency told her. “Juniper Flight is on the way to your position, but Juniper Two reported spotting six Goliaths, also heading west. We’ve also got two Nevermores and possibly a King Taijitu.”

Blake swallowed. “Not good.”

“Roger tha—“ The AWACS controller interrupted himself. “Ruby Four, warning, warning—bogeys taking off from your six o’clock low. Repeat, bogeys at your six.” 

Blake immediately threw the Tomcat into a climb, and leveled out upside down just below the undercast. Against the river, she saw four MiG-21s taking off from the airfield that she thought had been deserted. “Sienna, you bitch,” she hissed without transmitting. “You were there all along.” Then she hit the radio button. “Regency, be advised, bogeys are four Fishbeds. Classify as bandits.” 

“Blake, Yang.” Blake rolled out and saw Yang heading towards her, Weiss and Ruby in tow. “We’re on the same channel. What’s going on?”

“Bandits, eleven o’clock low. Four MiGs.” 

“More than that,” Ruby radioed. “Looks like we’ve got four more rolling out, and a F-5, and…what the hell?”

Blake circled around to look. The MiG’s arrowhead shape was distinctive, as was the thin silhouette of the F-5. Rolling out behind the latter was a bright red F-22. “That’s a Raptor!”

“It’s the same one that shot at me and Goodwitch over Ohio!” Ruby yelled. 

“Oscar Oscar to Ruby Flight.” Oobleck had finally found the right channel; Blake felt herself blushing a little, because she had completely forgotten about their superior. “Yang, Weiss, I’ll help you engage the fighters. Ruby, Blake, try to slow down the train. Maintain contact; we can’t afford to lose it. Beacon’s scrambling everything; Cardinal should be here in five minutes. Understood? Don’t worry about the GRIMM for now.”

“Roger that.” Blake and Ruby turned south, the F-14’s wings raking back as it picked up speed. Oobleck, descending through the overcast, saw the aircraft on the runways below, and the four MiG-21s, headed for the train. “I have the MiGs to the south.”

“I’ll take the F-5 and these MiGs here,” Weiss said.

“Then the F-22’s mine,” Yang finished. Beneath her oxygen mask, the blonde smiled. She’d always knew she could take a Raptor; now she was going to find out. 

Adam watched Ilia’s F-5 and Neo’s F-22 leave the hangar. With the taxiway clear, he started up the Moonslice. It was based off of the F-5, but very little remained of the original airframe aside from most of the fuselage. A single engine, taken from the F-16, replaced the twin engines of the F-5, and instead of a single tail, there were two, angled outwards. The nose was slightly larger, to house the same radar as the F-16. Two twenty millimeter cannon stuck out over the nose, same as the Tiger II, but the cockpit was that of the newest F-15. The pirates and White Fang were short on AMRAAMs, so Adam contented himself with six Sidewinders. And finally, of course, were the forward-swept wings that gave the Moonslice unbeatable low-speed handling; the light airframe made it more maneuverable than anything that flew, short of the F-22—and possibly even then.

Adam switched on the power—and _Wilt_ died. Not entirely—the instrument panel came on, the engine spooled up as smoothly as usual, but his inertial navigation system flickered and went out. The rudder pedals gave no resistance, which meant that the fly-by-wire microprocessors that kept advanced aircraft aloft were out. He switched off the engine, powered down, and then tried it again, with the same result. 

He yelled over the engine noise at the White Fang that was his crew chief. “Something’s wrong!” The chief gave him a thumbs up, gathered more of his men, and frantically began looking over the aircraft, even as the hangar shook with the rest of the Fang’s fighters taking off. 

Ruby dashed ahead with Blake, just under the speed of sound; neither used their afterburner, and both were watching the fuel gauge. The aircraft had been refueled at Hector, but air combat could drain fuel tanks in seconds. 

“There it is,” Blake radioed. “Eleven o’clock low. It’s over the bridge.”

Ruby flew over the train. There were twelve cars and the two locomotives—the last three were tank cars, but the rest were a mix of boxcars and larger container cars. There were also plenty of White Fang: she could see them on the roof. A smoke trail came from one of them. Ruby dodged, instinctively dropping a flare, and the missile sailed past. “Blake, just looks like they have small arms and some RPGs.”

“That wasn’t an RPG, Ruby!” Blake warned. “It chased you for a second. I’d say it was a Stinger or a Strela. Whoever fired it didn’t have a lock.”

_Shit,_ Ruby thought. Both the American-made FIM-92 Stinger and the older Eastern Bloc SA-7 Strela were shoulder-fired heat-seeking missiles. They were more of a danger to helicopters than her, but could still kill her if she wasn’t careful. Now some of the White Fang were shooting their rifles, and small arms, in enough volume, could be just as lethal—or even just one lucky shot through the canopy could end her life as easily and as quickly as the red Raptor.

Ruby climbed while she considered the best way to crack this nut. The train was beginning to wind its way through dense forest, and ahead rose the cliffs and limestone ridges of the Upper Mississippi Valley. The train was easily doing seventy miles an hour, and looked to be accelerating. 

“Cardinal Lead to Ruby Lead. Hi, girls!” Ruby never thought she’d be happy to hear Cardin Winchester’s voice. “Alpha check.”

“Cardin, Ruby! We’re pursuing a train headed southeast, over, ah, we just passed Hastings!” It wasn’t the best directions, but Ruby was rapidly becoming busy.

Luckily, the AWACS was on the ball. “Cardinal Lead, Ruby is at fifteen miles, bearing one-one-zero, angels eight.”

Blake broke in. “Cardin, suggest you split your flight. Oobleck is taking on four bandits at twenty miles, same bearing.”

For once Cardin didn’t argue—mainly because helping Oobleck meant kills, and Cardin wanted kills, badly. “Roger. Russel, Sky, join up with Ruby; Dove, follow me. Zone five.” Both Cardin’s F-15 and Dove’s F-18 went supersonic as they flew over the river; they were a blur past Ruby, there and gone. 

“Sky here. Target in sight. Making a run on the locos—what the hell—“ Suddenly Sky’s voice rose several octaves. “I’m spiked! I’m spiked!”

“Sky, break right! Break right!” Russel screamed. Ruby tried to break in, but hitting the radio button only produced a squealing noise—with only one channel, too many voices were overriding each other. 

“Oh shit!” Sky yelled. Finally Ruby saw him as she cleared one of the ridges—the Hawk, trailing flame and smoke, climbing away from the river. “Get out of it, Sky!” she yelled. “You’re on fire!”

Sky Lark did not argue. The Hawk leveled out, the canopy came away, and Sky rocketed free of the doomed fighter. It pitched up and exploded, the remains falling into the Mississippi. Ruby held her breath, then saw a parachute billow out over the tiny figure of the pilot. She made a slight course adjustment and flew past the parachute. Sky saw her and held both arms up over his head with clapsed hands. _He’s okay. Whew. Thank God._ Ruby tried to radio any rescue forces as Sky steered his ‘chute towards the Wisconsin shore, but the channel was blocked by a combination of Sky’s rescue beeper—which gave out a whooping sound—and a panicked Russel, who kept screaming “Sky’s down! Sky’s down!”

_What the hell got Sky?_ Ruby asked herself. Then she saw Blake suddenly climb, roll and dive. Ruby followed where the Tomcat was pointed, and saw a white and pink Sea Harrier suddenly appear from behind a ridge. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep. Next chapter: Neo vs. Yang, Weiss vs. Ilia, Ruby vs. Torchwick.


	47. Dance of the Furies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for dogfighting, as Neo and Yang and Weiss and Ilia engage each other. Who's going to survive--and is it even going to matter, with a GRIMM army headed for the Mississippi?

_Near Northfield_

_Minnesota Dead Zone, United States of Canada_

_3 May 2001_

Oobleck saw the four MiG-21s below him begin to turn east, to catch up with the train. So far, they hadn’t seen him, and Oobleck made sure the situation stayed that way: he hugged the broken overcast, and trusted in the abysmal rear vision of the MiG-21. 

Now came the tough part. He switched on his radar and locked onto one of the MiGs, but the MiG’s radar warning sensors would be going off on the cockpit. He hoped that the White Fang pilot’s inexperience would buy him a few precious seconds, as he fired off one of the Sparrows. The Sparrow was an older missile which used the firing fighter’s radar to guide it—which meant that Oobleck had to keep his F-106 on course until the missile hit, rather than simply fire and forget, like he could with a Sidewinder or AMRAAM, neither of which the ancient Delta Dart could carry. It wasn’t really designed for this sort of thing. 

Luckily, Oobleck’s gamble paid off. The Fang pilot spent five seconds trying to figure out where the missile was coming from—two seconds too late. The Sparrow hit, blowing the MiG in half. The other three scattered. Oobleck punched off his external tanks and swung behind another MiG. The distance closed rapidly. He switched to guns, lined up, and opened fire. Twenty millimeter shells sent sparks trailing from the wing, then the wing separated. The MiG rolled over and went into a spin. If the pilot bailed out, Oobleck didn’t see him, since he now had the other pair of MiGs to deal with. 

Twenty miles behind Oobleck, the remaining four White Fang fighters joined up and also began to turn east. Ilia took the lead, as the pilot with the most flight time; Neo actually had more, but didn’t complain. 

“Red Fang Lead, this is Black Fang Two! We’re engaged with an unknown enemy at twenty miles south of Bullseye! Single bandit, identity unknown!” Like their enemies, the Fangs used an arbitrary point as a center navigation reference—Bullseye being South St. Paul. 

“Red Fang Lead, roger,” Ilia replied. “Red Fang Three, Four, Five and Six, join up with Black Fang. Buster.” The four MiG-21s changed course, resuming their southerly course and hitting their afterburners to close the distance. 

Without warning, one of them disintegrated in a fireball. Ilia whirled her head around and kicked the tail; the F-5’s rearward vision wasn’t all that great either. She saw the Typhoon and F-15 diving on them. “Neo!” she shouted. “Break right!” 

_Number six,_ Weiss told herself, sparing a second to see her kill’s fireball. The MiG had never seen her, or the AMRAAM she fired. The remaining MiGs dived for the ground to hide against the woods, but she ignored those for now. The F-5 was her target. She followed it into its left break. The F-22 went right, but that was Yang’s problem. 

Seventy miles southwest of the dogfight, Nora Valkyrie resisted the urge to push her throttle up any more: it was already at the stops, and she might break it if she tried to do more. The A-10 simply was not designed for speed. She felt sorry for Ren, who was cruising along at half power in his J-10, at what for the fighter would be a leisurely pace. “Ren, Nora,” she said. “Go on. They need you more than me.”

“Negative,” Ren answered simply. He would stay with her; he would have stayed with Jaune or Pyrrha, because lone aircraft were GRIMM bait. It had nothing to do with Nora being his girlfriend. _Well, almost nothing,_ he admitted to himself. 

Something moved in the corner of one eye. He looked to his left and up. For a split-second in a break in the clouds, a black shape moved. It was moving at high speed, but in the moment he had seen it, it did not look like Goodwitch’s F-22, but larger. 

“Regency, Juniper Three,” he radioed. “Do have anything at my eleven o’clock, bearing one-three-zero, course approximately northeast at high speed?”

There was a pause, then the AWACS answered. “Negative, Juniper. Nothing on scope.”

Ren blinked, but he knew he had seen something. Then Nora interrupted his thoughts. “Ren, Nora, three o’clock low.” Ren looked in that direction, dipping his wing to get a better look. It was Goliath GRIMM, six of them. “Regency, Juniper Three. Contact report. Six Goliath, heading east, location…” He consulted the map display on his instrument panel. “Two klicks east of Blooming Prairie.” 

A new voice came on the line. “Juniper Three and Four, this is Jehovah.” Ren recognized Ironwood’s voice, broadcasting from Beacon. “Turn east now. We’re getting all kinds of GRIMM reports. We need to know what’s out there.”

“What about the rest—“ Nora began.

“That’s an order, Juniper Four. Jehovah out.”

_Joint Base Beacon_

_Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_3 May 2001_

Ironwood had joined Ozpin in the control tower. Both men watched as Creamer Flight lifted off from the runway. “Coffee Lead will be rolling momentarily,” the senior controller told Ozpin. “Captain Adel had some last minute ordnance loaded. Air to ground.”

“Very well.” He turned to Ironwood. “James?”

“I’m turning Juniper Three and Four east. They won’t get to the dogfight in time anyway. We need to find out where all these GRIMM are coming from.” Ozpin glanced at a notepad the general had put in front of him. _Beowolves 12, Nevermore 2, Goliaths 6._ The two met eyes. “Do you think this is the attack we’ve been expecting?”

“Possibly.” Ozpin pulled out a map and grabbed a pencil. He did some quick figures. The train, unless it was stopped, would reach La Crosse in less than an hour. The Beowolves, unless they were stopped, would reach La Crosse in half an hour, the Nevermore in a little more than that, and the Goliaths would take almost two hours. “It’s not a coordinated attack,” he murmured to Ironwood, so low only the other man could hear him. “Not like her.”

“Even Salem isn’t perfect,” Ironwood whispered back. 

“I expected the attack to hit during the main part of Vytal Flag.”

“Ruby Flight might’ve tripped it early.” Ironwood smiled wanly. “Those girls do seem to attract trouble.” He reached forward and switched his headset to a new frequency. “I’m not taking chances, Ozpin.” Ironwood paused until a voice came up on his headset. “O’Hare, Beacon. This is Jehovah. Get Strike Package Alpha rolling ASAP. I authenticate Mike Oscar, time is 1130 local, 1730 Zulu.” He put a hand over the mike. “I’m scrambling the B-52s.” 

“Captain, sir?” The senior controller motioned for Ozpin’s attention. “Sir, Juniper Three just reported in. They’ve spotted Boarbatusks.”

“How many?”

The controller swallowed nervously. “At least fifty. Possibly more.”

Ozpin looked over his shoulder at Ironwood, who even looked worried. “It appears we’ll need those B-52s, James.”

_Near Mountain Glenn_

_Minnesota Dead Zone, United States of Canada_

_3 May 2001_

Though Yang, deep down, wanted a good fight with the Raptor, her training took over from sentiment. She wasted no time as the F-22 moved away from her: she locked on—or tried; _Ember Celica’s_ radar was having trouble locking on to the stealthy aircraft—and fired an AMRAAM.

It guided true, and for a second, Yang thought the dogfight would be over before it started. Then the F-22 suddenly rose up, turned within its own length, and was now suddenly head to head with the F-15. The AMRAAM, unable to match the move, flew on to parts unknown. 

The two aircraft shot past each other in a moment. Yang had the briefest of sights of a pink helmet; Neo had hers of a yellow helmet and the bright yellow nose of _Ember Celica._ Then they were past. 

Weiss realized that she might have made a mistake, and wondered if it was too late to switch dance partners with Yang. The F-5 pilot was good. Weiss had fired a Sidewinder only to see it decoyed off, then missed with her gun as the F-5 forced her into an overshoot. Making matters worse was that the MiGs were not heading east or south as she had hoped, but were in a loose circle, waiting to pounce as soon as she turned her back. Weiss was rapidly becoming too busy. She threw _Myrtenaster_ into a hard climb, extending out, trying to get some room. 

The F-5 climbed after her and closed the range. “Come on, come on,” Weiss chanted to herself. She waited a second longer than she dared, then struck the left rudder pedal and hammerheaded the Typhoon. Her aircraft shuddered on the edge of a stall, then fell out of the sky. The F-5 shot past, having fired a Sidewinder a fraction too late. Weiss opened the throttle to stay in control, gaining airspeed and energy, and began to climb again, expecting to see the F-5 rolling out to find her. Instead, the F-5 had perfectly aped her maneuver and was coming down after her. Making matters worse, one of the MiGs had broken off and was now rushing in as well from above. She would be sandwiched between them.

Then the MiG became a target. A Sidewinder streaked out of the overcast and struck the MiG in its right wing. The MiG tumbled into a fireball and exploded. Weiss had a brief glimpse of a camouflaged F-16, then her radio crackled: “Pyrrha, splash one.”

The F-5 opened fire, its nose guns winking with tracer. Weiss threw her Typhoon into a flurry of maneuevers, getting out of the lethal cone of cannon shells. She snapped the stick hard left into a hard break, but as she strained against the press of gravity to check her canopy mirrors, the F-5 was still there. 

Yang knew the Raptor would turn inside her, even as she broke left: the F-22 had thrust vectoring and the Silent Eagle didn’t. She was drawing her opponent into a trap. She saw one side of the Raptor’s fuselage collapse inward and knew the weapon doors were opening. Yang slammed the stick into her right knee and hit the rudder pedal, throwing her F-15 hard right. Neo swore as she overshot and immediately went into a left roll, trusting her instincts. Both pilots made a complete circle and ended up going directly at each other. Neither anticipated the other’s speed, both switched to guns, and both missed. Yang reversed her turn; so did Neo, and the result was another head on pass. Yang missed again; Neo did not even bother firing. 

_Like with Blake,_ Yang thought. _Well, maybe the same trick will work with this bastard._ She pulled the throttle back and pulled her nose up as they entered the third circle, which would force the F-22 into an overshoot. 

Neo noticed it, and realized she was not using the F-22’s abilities, and was fighting the way her opponent wanted her to. As the two aircraft crossed again, Neo snapped into a hard climb. Before Yang could react, the Raptor was already six thousand feet above her and leveling out, daring Yang to follow her. 

Yang didn’t accept the challenge, rolled, and went into a shallow dive towards Weiss and Ilia. Neo couldn’t believe her luck—the F-15 was presenting a perfect target—rolled over, and dived on _Ember Celica._ She tried to lock on, but the Silent Eagle was nearly as stealthy as her own aircraft, and the distance closed too fast for an AMRAAM shot anyway. A wide grin split Neo’s lips as she switched to guns; it would be better this way. She centered the gunsight on the wide spine of the F-15 when suddenly the speedbrake on the back of her opponent popped open. Neo shot past, before she could even pull the trigger, and now she was the hunted. Yang retracted the speedbrake and switched to guns as well. The Raptor hung in her gunsight like a pinned butterfly. “All over, bitch!” Yang crowed.

Neo knew her next move might be her last. She threw the F-22 into a climb, thrust vectored, and hung there, engines roaring. To Yang, it was if the Raptor had simply stopped cold.

_“Oh SHIT!”_ Yang screamed, and slammed the stick forward, clearing the tail of the F-22 by a mere two feet and avoiding a collision. As she did so, Neo spun the Raptor in place, pushed the throttle forward, and was now behind Yang, the F-15’s glowing afterburners a perfect target as she switched to Sidewinders.

Weiss was very happy that the MiGs were no longer a problem, as they were busy trying to evade Pyrrha and Jaune. She had her hands plenty full with the F-5. 

Every time she had tried to break away, the White Fang pilot had rolled, keeping her speed and position behind _Myrtenaster._ She could climb away, but that would also leave her a hot target against a cold sky, perfect parameters for a Sidewinder shot, and there was no longer enough room to dive; she would hit the ground. For the first time in her life, Weiss considered quitting: she was going to be shot down anyway, and if she ejected, at least she might get rescued.

_No!_ she shouted at herself. _You’re a Schnee, and it will be a cold day in hell before a Schnee falls to a damned White Fang!_

There was one trick left. Weiss breathed a quick prayer, hauled the stick back into her stomach, and stepped down hard on the left rudder pedal. Warnings went off in the cockpit, warning of an imminent stall. She slammed the stick all the way forward.

Ilia had found her opponent to be the best she had ever fought—and she had been trained by Kali Belladonna. It had taken all of her skill to somehow keep her F-5 behind the Typhoon and not overshoot; she knew that her little fighter was outclassed by her opponent, and if she gave the other pilot the slightest opening, she was dead. The MiGs were no longer a factor; she had shut out their cries for help as they were hunted down by the F-16 and Mirage 2000. They would at least buy Ilia time with their lives. 

It was about over, though. Ilia had noted the Maltese crosses on the fuselage and wings of the Typhoon, and the Schnee snowflake crest on the tail. The German was good, but Ilia had herded him—or her—into a position where there was no escape. She readied to fire her two remaining Sidewinders. 

Then her opponent did the impossible. It rose, rolled left, then seemed to spin in place. Ilia was shocked, but only for a second—and a second was all Weiss needed. She held down the trigger as the F-5 shot past, the 27 millimeter Mauser cannon punching holes the length of the fuselage, barely missing the cockpit. Weiss then opened the throttles, hanging on the sheer power of her engines, _Myrtenaster_ screaming at the edge of a flat spin. The control surfaces bit into the air as Weiss let the nose drop a little to build up airspeed, then she roared back into level flight, bending the trees in her wake.

Ilia heard the left engine clatter and whine down, then the F-5 shuddered as the left tailplane separated from the aircraft. Fuel ignited to flame. Ilia sighed, tightened her straps, straightened her back, and pulled the ejection handles on either side of the seat. She blacked out as twelve times the force of gravity pushed her down into the seat, then she was clear of both canopy and aircraft. She came to as the seat separated and the parachute opened with a thump. 

Ilia quickly checked herself. Her back hurt, but her legs and arms were intact; too many fighter pilots broke limbs on ejection. She turned in her parachute at jet noise, and saw in horror that the Typhoon was coming back. There was nothing to do but wait for the cannon shell that would tear her soft body into pieces. 

The Typhoon went past without firing. Ilia saw the pilot raise a hand to her brow in salute. The Faunus returned the salute. “Well,” she said aloud as the Typhoon hurtled away, “mercy from a Schnee. Who’d have thought?”

_I’m dead,_ Yang thought. There was no way the Raptor pilot could miss, not with Sidewinders at this range. To Yang’s surprise, she did not feel panic or fear, only disappointment that she was going to lose. _This is going to be hard on Dad and Ruby._

“Bye-bye, dum-dum,” Neo spoke as her finger tightened on the trigger. Without warning, her ears shrilled with the sound of a missile lock. Her hand was moving before her mind even engaged, dodging left, away from the threat, finger coming off the trigger and ruining her shot. Yang didn’t question her sudden salvation: she came out of afterburner and split-S out of the fight, even as the F-22 turned hard. Two missiles shot past, just missing the Raptor. Neo looked up and her breath caught in her throat. 

The aircraft was a glossy black, with red highlights, but no markings. It had broad delta wings, with a dogtoothed leading edge, and the intakes set far back, over the wings, with twin tails on both intake fairings. A long nose ended in chiseled edges of a first-generation stealthy aircraft, with canards on either side of the cockpit. To Neo’s terror, her radar did not even recognize the aircraft’s existence. It wasn’t there, and yet it was, and it was beginning to turn in her direction. 

Neo Politan was not easily frightened, but fear seized her. In panic, she dived away from the strange aircraft, lit her afterburners, and ran for all she was worth to the west.

“What the hell is that?” Yang asked, as she saw the aircraft from below. It made a hard turn, its afterburners glowed, and it shot into the clouds and disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having watched a F-22 put through its paces twice last summer, I can assure you that Neo's maneuvering is entirely accurate! If anything, she's not using the Raptor to its full potential, since she's a little inexperienced in flying it. (In theory, she should be a lot worse at it, since going from a Sea Harrier to a F-22 would be like going from a Sopwith Camel to a F-16, but this is a story, after all.)
> 
> Ilia keeping Weiss wrapped up despite a good 35 years between their two designs is a testament to Ilia's skill. Top Gun F-5 adversary pilots are every bit as good, and reguarly give Hornet pilots fits even these days. 
> 
> As for that last aircraft, well...over on FF.net, someone asked when I first started posting this story "Will you include a MiG-31?" I did, but not the MiG-31 he was thinking of. Whoever is flying that machine, they must be thinking in Russian...


	48. Long Train Runnin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruby Flight has to try and stop the White Fang train from making La Crosse, but they're not configured for air-to-ground. Luckily, Coco Adel is. 
> 
> Too bad neither Ruby nor Coco know the train's loaded with enough high explosives to divert the Mississippi River...

_Chicago O’Hare International Airport_

_Illinois, United States of Canada_

_3 May 2001_

Winter Schnee ran from the Gulfstream she had just arrived in from Signal towards the six B-52s. Their engines were already spooling up. She dashed towards the first aircraft; the pilot saw her and instructed the crew below to unlatch the boarding hatch. As soon as it was halfway down, Winter pulled herself into the aircraft, squeezed past the gunner who had opened it, then through the lower deck of the cockpit. She scrambled up the ladder into the cockpit. “What’s going on?” she puffed out.

The lieutenant in the pilot’s seat turned to her. He had flown with Winter as her navigator from Europe a few weeks before. “Morning, Colonel. We got the alert from Beacon. Strike Package Alpha. Straight from Ironwood, ma’am.”

_Strike Package Alpha,_ Winter thought. _That means a combined air and ground GRIMM assault._ “Very well. Lieutenant, I’m taking command.” She reached into a small cabinet and pulled out a helmet and oxygen mask; she was still in her Luftwaffe regular uniform, but that was less of an issue aboard a pressurized bomber. “Start rolling.”

“Do you want the aircraft, ma’am?” 

Winter smiled slightly. She had the authority by her rank to take over flying, but this was not her aircraft; it was the lieutenant’s. “No, she’s yours, Smitty. Take her out.” Once she had the helmet on and was hooked into the radio, she informed the raid commander—a major—that she was now in command, and took the jump seat behind the pilot and copilot. As she did so, the B-52 taxied past held airliners and swung onto the runway. “MITO,” Winter ordered over the open net. Minimum Interval Take Off would get the entire cell of six B-52s in the air in less than two minutes. 

Both the pilot and copilot gripped the throttles and pushed them to full thrust. An alarm went off. The copilot leaned forward. “Engine number five and six are running above temperature. Might have to shut them down.”

“Damn,” the pilot breathed. “We’ll be a scrub if we do.”

Winter leaned forward. “We go. Even if we shut down the engines, we go.”

“Colonel, we’re not supposed to take off without all eight engines unless it’s wartime!”

“Lieutenant, what do you think this is? Go.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” The pilot let off the toe brakes and the B-52 surged forward. Winter leaned back in the jump seat, then was pressed back in it as the Stratofortress roared into the air. It had barely left the ground when the second B-52 was rolling. 

“Pilot, navigator,” another lieutenant called up from the lower deck. “Come right to 110. When we get to the Mississippi, we’ll follow it to La Crosse.”

“EWO,” Winter instructed, “relay a message to Beacon. Let them know we’re on the way, but we’ll need escorts if there’s GRIMM in the air.”

“Roger that, Colonel. That probably won’t be a problem. There’s one hell of an air battle going on up there.” 

The B-52s, once they were clear of Chicago, joined up in a tight formation, and each aircraft switched on their internal jamming systems. The gunners uncaged the single Vulcan twenty millimeter gatling cannon in the tails. Like their grandfathers had in B-17s and B-24s, the bomber crews were going to war.

_Near the Ruins of Red Wing_

_Minnesota Dead Zone, United States of Canada_

_3 May 2001_

Roman Torchwick saw the burning remains of the Hawk splash into the Mississippi. “That’s for Lake Michigan, asshole,” he murmured, but his RWR warbled for his attention. He strained against the G-forces to look behind him as he made a hard right break. The F-14’s profile was unmistakable. “Well, hello, kitty cat,” he grinned beneath the mask. “You know, we really need to stop meeting like this. People are gonna talk.” 

He led the Tomcat back over the train, trying to sucker her into a missile trap, but was forced to break away when the warbling turned into a screech as Blake fired an AMRAAM at him. Roman swore, used the Harrier’s thrust vectoring to make a hard turn to throw off the seeker head; the missile hit the ground. Torchwick found himself head to head with the F-14. Both opened fire with guns as they went past, but neither hit. Once more, he threw the Harrier into a hard turn—this sort of knife fight was something he excelled in, and once more knew Blake was making a huge mistake: she was trying to fight him on his own terms. He came around and was rewarded with a spreadeagled view of the F-14 in front of him.

Torchwick was only carrying Sidewinders this time; the White Fang’s small amount of AMRAAMs had gone to the F-22. That was fine, Torchwick thought, since the Tomcat was at perfect parameters for a Sidewinder shot. He fired two, just in case, and both tracked perfectly; the F-14’s wings were raked back, but Blake was still out of kinetic energy. 

Both missiles sailed directly through the Tomcat, and Torchwick, with a savage curse, knew he had been had. He chopped the throttle and thrust vectored upwards, switching to guns, as the F-14 dived on him from above. The 25mm cannon fired, but again, nothing happened.

_Two feints? Where the hell—_ Torchwick’s answer came a second later as he felt the Harrier shudder from cannon hits, and was suddenly thrown to one side as half the tail came off. He had the briefest glimpse of a third Tomcat flying past from under him, and knew what happened: Blake had not turned or climbed, but dived, trading altitude for speed. While he was distracted by the two holograms, she had been coming in from below. 

The Harrier’s engine wound down, and alarm lights went off all over the instrument panel. The aircraft was seconds away from losing power, stalling, and flat spinning into the river. Torchwick sighed. “Neo’s going to be _so_ pissed at me,” he remarked, then braced himself, reached between his legs, and pulled the ejection handle.

Blake shut off _Gambol Shroud’s_ holograms, and couldn’t stop a wide smile as she saw Torchwick eject from the doomed Harrier. “Blake, splash one. Ruby, where are you?”

Ruby dived on the train. Her missiles weren’t of much use against ground targets, but she still had the gun. She pumped the flare button twice, dropping them to decoy any missiles, and made her run. Her cannon shells hit the last car in line, a tank car she set aflame, but the rest just chewed up ground. She broke off her run and climbed, spinning and rolling to further throw off the White Fang on the train. A missile was fired, but it went well wide.

“Ruby, Russel. Sorry about that. Joining up on your port side.” The other F-16 came up beside her. “What’s the plan, boss?”

Ruby was taken aback for a second. She had never commanded anything but Ruby Flight before, and now she had Russel Thrush asking her for orders. _Well, this what you do now, Ruby Rose,_ she told herself. Then she heard Blake’s call. “Blake, Ruby, we’re about five miles south of you, angels, ah, ten thousand.”

“Roger. I see you.” Within moments, the Tomcat was flying on her right side. Ruby thought a moment. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do. Russel, you roll in, and I’ll cover you. Blake, hold high in case the Fangers have got any more fighters around.” 

“Roger that,” Blake said. 

Ruby took a breath. “Russel, we’re in.” The two F-16s peeled off. Ruby took the lead, but her dive was more shallow and not nearly as fast, and she dropped flares. She was throwing herself out as bait. She dropped a wing, and saw White Fang white uniforms around the back of the train. The burning tanker car had been decoupled, and was falling behind the train rapidly; it exploded seconds later. 

Russel suddenly flattened his own dive, throwing off the White Fang; he was past the last car before they realized his real target was the locomotives. Ruby saw gun smoke leave a thin trail behind the F-16 as he opened fire, and strikes sparkled off the second of the two locomotives. 

“Russel, break off now!” Blake yelled. Russel did not question the call, and broke away. Ruby was about to ask why, but then saw: the train turned a curve and disappeared into dense forest; had Russel continued his run, he would’ve hit the trees. He twisted away from small arms fire. “Ruby, Russel; I got some hits.”

“Roger, I saw that.” Ruby edged ahead and waited for the train to clear the forest. It did, and she could see that metal plates were set around the engines. “Fuck,” she cursed, not realizing the radio button was still down. “That thing’s armored.”

“This is never going to work,” Russel called out. “Now what?”

Ruby climbed; Russel and Blake joined up again. _Think, Ruby,_ she commanded herself. _We can’t take out that train, but something ground to air can—wait, Nora!_ Nora might be too far to talk to, so Ruby tried to contact Regency, only for the channel to be filled with Cardin Winchester’s voice. “I GOT THE SON OF A BITCH! I GOT THE SON OF A BITCH!”

“Sierra Hotel,” Oobleck cut in. “Now shut up and go get another! I have two of them cornered over here!”

“This is Pyrrha, splash two—“

“Weiss, Yang, did you—“

“What—“

The channel was filled with voices. Finally, a loud voice quieted them all: Ozpin’s, using the more powerful radios that overrode the aerial sets. “All Vale aircraft, this is Beacon. Silence on the channel.” Once that was accomplished, he spoke again. “Go Channel Five.” Hands all over Minnesota switched to the new channel, which to their surprise, was clear from jamming. “Sun, Juniper, Coffee and Creamer Flights: marshal at Rochester and engage GRIMM, designation Killbox Alpha. Cardinal: finish off remaining bandits and assume CAP over La Crosse, designation Killbox Bravo; engage any leakers. Ruby: destroy the train ASAP, then join up with Sun and Creamer. Oscar Oscar: return Beacon, buster. All Rochester flights will go Channel Three; all others this channel. Winter Flight is on its way, ETA two-zero minutes. Regency has control. This is Beacon, authenticate Oscar Zebra, time is 1900 Zulu.” 

Ruby waited to see if there was any more instructions, then got on the channel. “Weiss, Yang, close up if you’re clear; we’re southwest of Red Wing, bearing, ah, three-zero-zero, about fifty miles. Russel, rejoin Cardinal. And thanks.” 

“Roger that, Ruby.” She saw Russel throw her a salute as he peeled off, lit his afterburner, and raced northwest.

“Regency, this is Ruby,” she radioed next. “We’re not going to stop this train; we’re loaded for air-to-air, and it’s armored.”

There was a slight pause. “Ruby, Regency; roger that. We’re chopping Coffee Lead to you; ETA five minutes.” Ruby wasn’t sure what Coco Adel was going to be able to do, but presumably Regency knew better than she did. Ruby Rose was not a patient woman, but she now she had little to do but wait, and watch the train below her. It roared through the ruins of Wabasha; there were sixty miles to go before they reached La Crosse.

_Near Alma_

_Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_3 May 2001_

Karelia Bighorn-Vlata took off her helmet for a moment and gloried in the feel of the wind in her hair. Her M1A2 Abrams was headed south for La Crosse at fifty miles an hour, the treads singing on the reinforced roads. Behind her, her team of seventeen Abrams and M3 Bradleys trailed behind her, all going at full speed. Ahead of them, military policemen frantically cleared the road of traffic; there was no stopping Team Sentinel. Colonel Evan Ridinghood had detached Team Sentinel to reinforce the bridge crossing at La Crosse on his own initiative, after listening to the frantic reports of the pilots above Minnesota. After a few minutes of feeling the breeze, she replaced the helmet.

Beside her, Sky Lark held onto the loader’s machine gun for dear life. He had come down on the Wisconsin side of the Mississippi River, unhurt except having the hell scared out of him. The local police had delivered him to Team Sentinel, which were headed more or less his way anyway. Now he was having another scare: the United States Army, he decided, was made up of lunatics. He was pushed painfully against the side of the hatch as the tank took a curve without slowing down, and drifted through it like a street racer.

Karelia toggled her throat mike. “Nate, slow down a bit through the curves and quit showing off for Flyboy here. The guy’s had enough for one day.” She looked over at Sky and tapped her helmet. When he couldn’t get the CVC mike to work, she leaned over, bracing her legs against the hatch sides, and helped him. “How are you doing, Lieutenant?”

“You’re crazy!” was all Sky could get out. Karelia laughed. 

“Yo, Cap,” Nate sang out. “We got someone ahead of us.” About half a mile up the road, she could see someone frantically waving for their attention. She dropped down into the turret and switched frequencies. “Sentinel Six to Sentinel elements, halt and take five. Nate, stop tank.”

“Roger.” Nate stepped on the brakes gradually, and the Abrams came to a slow stop. The man in the road was wearing a flight suit. His hair was an orange-red and he was soaked to the bone. There was no sign of a helmet or parachute. “Who the hell are you?” Karelia yelled out. She laid a hand on the commander’s weapon—a Browning M2 .50 caliber machine gun.

Roman Torchwick noted the movement and kept his hands raised. He had landed in the river, quickly abandoned the parachute before it dragged him under, and let both current and his own swimming carry him to the Wisconsin side. He hated to leave his tailored, decorated helmet, but he reasoned his only chance of getting out of this with his skin intact was to act like he was a USAF pilot. His flight suit was the same shade and type. When he saw the tanks approaching, he gambled: it was doubtful that the Army would know the name of Roman Torchwick.

“I’m Lieutenant Gray Haddock!” Torchwick shouted. He had used the alias before. “Got shot down by those fucking air pirates—some asshole in a pink and white Sea Harrier!” Torchwick put a smile on it, and he had a very winning smile. “Can I get a lift?”

“Sure, hop aboard.” Karelia disconnected her CVC, climbed onto the forward hull of the Abrams, and helped Torchwick up. “It’s a bit cramped, but we’ll drop you off when we get to La Crosse.” 

“Much obliged.” He went down into the turret and sat next to who he presumed was the gunner, a thin corporal that looked like the stereotypical American Teen. He cracked bubblegum and handed Torchwick a bottle of water, which he gratefully took. With a lurch, the Abrams started up again and began to accelerate. 

“Friend of yours?” Karelia called across to Sky, with an incline of her head in Torchwick’s general direction. The Malaysian pilot stole a glance down in the turret, looked at the Army captain, and shook his head. “Didn’t think so.” Casually, she reached into a shoulder holster and laid a Colt M1911 .45 pistol on the turret top, then ducked back down into the turret, motioning for Sky to follow. She braced against the hatch sides, with both feet on the turret floor. “Say, Lieutenant,” she said in a half-yell to Torchwick, “what outfit you with?”

Torchwick had dreaded this question, and seeing the flight-suited man leaning down from the loader hatch, knew he was in trouble. “O’Hare,” he yelled back. “They sent us up here from there.”

“Really?” Sky asked. “You must’ve gotten up here pretty quick. I got shot down by that Harrier, too. What do you fly?”

“F-16,” Torchwick answered.

“Hey, that’s cool!” Sky exclaimed. “So what was your graduating class number?” Sky knew that every graduating USAF pilot class had a number, from hanging out with the rest of Cardinal Flight.

Torchwick knew he was caught. He briefly considered shoving the tank commander into the gunner, who sat looking rather concerned at the proceedings, then scrambling out of the commander’s hatch and taking a jump into the ditch. But even assuming he managed to do that, there was nothing stopping the column from dropping off a squad of infantry to look for him. And finally, there was the fact that the tank commander was now pointing a pistol at his head. He put up his hands. “Okay, you got me. How did you know?”

“Your hair. Way out of regs, even for the Air Force,” Karelia answered. “Who are you?”

“I’m the world famous air pirate Roman Torchwick.” He smiled across to Sky. “I’m the guy who shot you down. No hard feelings?”

“None,” Sky answered. “You should shoot him, Captain.”

Karelia shook her head. She handed her pistol to the gunner, climbed down fully into the turret, and jerked Torchwick’s hands behind his back. Without cuffs or zip ties, she used a spare helmet radio cord and tied his hands securely. “Didn’t know you were into this sort of thing,” he quipped.

“Not as much as I like running over people in my tank,” she told him. “The screams really get me off.” Both of them were thrown to one side as the turret suddenly rotated right. Had Torchwick’s hands been free, he might have used the opportunity, but now he was just pushed down further onto the grimy turret floor. “What’s going on?” Karelia yelled at her gunner.

“Train to the right side. That area’s supposed to be abandoned, but it’s going like hell.”

Karelia got back on her CVC. "Designate! Gunner, HEAT, train!” 

"Identified! Train, range...out of range!" Sky squirmed out of the way as the burly loader reached back into the Abrams’ magazine and slammed a shell home in the breech. “Up!” he shouted.

Torchwick struggled to his knees and managed to get Karelia’s attention by slamming into her. She seized a handful of his flight suit, but he shouted, “Be careful with that train!”

“Why?” she yelled back.

“Because it’s loaded with enough explosives to dig a new lake!” Torchwick told her. 

She put the pistol to his head. “Where’s it going?”

Torchwick rolled his eyes. He was not afraid of the pistol, and actually smiled at the thought of getting back at Sienna Khan a little. Thanks to her, his operation was in ruins. “La Crosse. There’s White Fang onboard, and they’re going to use it to blow a hole in your lines. Literally.”

“Shit.” Karelia switched frequencies to the team net. “Sentinel Six to Sentinel 44. I need a relay to Beacon, now.”

Ruby spotted Coco’s desert painted Mirage headed down the valley at the same time Coco spotted her. The Mirage climbed to meet Ruby Flight, now back together again. Ruby broke off worrying about Yang—her sister seemed unusually subdued on her check-in—to talk to Coco. “Coco, Ruby. I sure hope you’re groomed for air-to-ground.”

“Roger that, Ruby.” Coco rolled onto her left wingtip. Her wingtips carried Sidewinders, as did two of her wing stations. The other stations were loaded with rocket pods, and the centerline held a huge gunpod. _A Pave Claw!_ Ruby thought with exultation. The Pave Claw was a gunpod that held the same mammoth Avenger 30 millimeter gatling cannon used by the A-10. 

“Sierra Hotel, Coco!” Ruby said. “Okay, target is the train below. The locomotives are armored; our twenty mils won’t do squat. The train’s got White Fang all over with small arms and Stingers. We’ll distract them while you run at the locos.”

“Roger. Sounds like fun.” 

“Blake, you and Yang hold high while Weiss and I make our run. Coco, as soon as we’re off to the east, you come in.” Coco clicked her mike twice in response.

“Roger, wilco,” Blake replied. 

Ruby thought Weiss’ Mauser cannon might hit harder than her Vulcan. “Weiss, if you’re okay with it, you go in first, and I’ll follow in trail. Okay?”

“Roger, Ruby.” Weiss hoped _Myrtenaster_ was all right. It was flying just fine, but she knew she had to have overstressed the airframe in the fight with the F-5. 

“Coco, head out. We’ll go in three minutes.”

Coco clicked her mike again and acclerated away from Ruby Flight. Below, the ground had deepened to a valley, with the railroad hugging the narrow flatland between the river and the forest-covered mountains. Ruby checked her onboard clock, waited three minutes, then gave Weiss the go. The Typhoon dropped into a shallow dive; Ruby counted to five and followed. 

“Ruby Lead, Regency. Relay from Beacon; prepare to copy.”

“Little busy, Regency.”

The AWACS ignored her. “Relay from Beacon as follows: train filled with high explosives, engage with caution, but destroy target as soon as possible. Acknowledge.”

“Oh shit!” Ruby screamed. “Weiss, Coco, break off! Break now!” Weiss instantly pulled up and climbed hard, a second before she would have opened fire on the middle of the train. To avoid hitting _Myrtenaster,_ Ruby broke left and swung out over the river. 

Her message had not reached Coco, because the train had curved behind a ridge. Coco rolled in, using the ridge as cover, and so didn’t hear Ruby’s message. As it turned out, the White Fang were too surprised to see a Mirage coming down the track at a hundred feet head on at the train to fire back at it. Coco pulled the trigger and held it.

The Pave Claw roared as it sent 150 rounds of depleted uranium tipped armor piercing rounds into the front of the train. The jury-rigged armor was shredded under the onslaught and the rounds tore into the engine, igniting fuel. As Coco flew over the top, she paused for a half-second, then fired again, into the center of the train, hitting a tank car, which erupted in flame. The speed of the train caused the flame to be sucked back into the cars, loaded with black powder and dynamite.

Aboard the train, Perry died a hero’s death. His last act was to yell at his White Fang comrades to abandon the train as he hit the brakes to slow down, even as the crippled engine began to tear itself apart. Some made it, diving into the ditch, risking broken bones instead of certain death. Others never heard the order and fired ineffectually at the Mirage up to the moment when the entire train went up in a tremendous explosion.

The explosion blew outwards, flattening trees on the ridges like a tornado was passing through them and igniting others; an entire section of cliff was blown upwards, then fell back onto the burning remains of the train and the track. Flames shot upwards, carrying with it pieces of train and bodies; Yang watched in stunned horror as an entire wheel assembly from one of the boxcars spun crazily past—and she was at seven thousand feet altitude. Perry’s courageous act had been in vain: any White Fang that had made it off the train were pulped by the shockwave.

Coco felt like a giant hand had grabbed her Mirage and thrown it. It spun crazily across the valley with enough force to tear the Pave Claw pod off the centerline and one of her flaps off the left wing. Her engine flamed out before it relit with a bang, and her helmet was thrown against the canopy hard enough to break it. It took every amount of flying ability she had to keep the Mirage in the air. 

Ruby was far enough away to see the explosion and the actual shockwave rippling across the Mississippi towards her. She turned away as hard as she could and firewalled the throttle. The shockwave still caught _Crescent Rose,_ but with much less violence than it had hit Coco. Once the buffeting stopped, she turned back, now over the Wisconsin side of the valley. “Holy…” Ruby couldn’t even finish the sentence. Where the train had been was now a mushroom cloud slowly rising into the sky, with an entire ridgeline aflame. 

Blake and Yang were similarily stunned, so it fell to Weiss to make the call. “Regency, Weiss. Target destroyed.”

“I fucking guess!” Yang finally found her voice.

Ruby flew over the tank column and rocked her wings. No one waved back, as everyone outside their turrets had rapidly dropped down into them, slamming shut the hatches when the explosion happened. She caught up with Coco. “Coco, Ruby, you receiving?”

There was a pause, then Coco came up, breathing heavily. “Roger…roger, Ruby. Still here."

“You okay?”

“Give me a lookover.”

Ruby flew alongside. The once pristine camouflage was blackened in places, the Pave Claw pod was gone along with the centerline pylon, one flap was missing, the rudder looked shredded, and the nose pitot boom was skewed. She told Coco the damage. “You gonna bail out?”

“Negative. I’ll try to make Beacon, _inshallah._ Go on, Ruby.”

Ruby threw her a wave, then rejoined Ruby Flight, flying past the black cloud. Pieces still rained down into the river, and flames spread down the track. There was nothing left. “Ruby Flight, check in.”

“Yang.”

“Weiss.”

There was no response from Blake. Ruby called again, and finally Blake came up. “Blake. Blake, checking in.”

“You hit?”

“Negative. Charlie Mike.” Blake spared one last look at what had been the train, and possibly some of her former friends.

“Regency, Ruby. Coco is RTB Beacon with heavy damage. We’re still committed.” Ruby reached up and wiped some sweat from under her helmet with her glove. It was already a long day. 

“Ruby, give me your state.”

“Wait one.” She checked her fuel gauge, then asked the others of Ruby Flight how they were doing on fuel. Dogfighting took a lot, but all of them still had enough—for a short while, anyway. “Regency, Ruby has about 30 minutes of playtime.”

“Roger, Ruby. Proceed south to Killbox Alpha and rendezvous with the other flights. We’ll get a tanker scrambled to you over Brown Anchor if you need it.”

Ruby checked her kneepad map. Brown Anchor was just south of La Crosse. “Regency, what’s the raid count on GRIMM?”

Regency didn’t answer for a moment. “Ruby, I think it’s all of them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally managed to get Coco involved in this one. The Pave Claw is a real gunpod, but it's rarely used--it was the USAF's unsuccessful attempt to replace the A-10 with the F-16. 
> 
> And a B-52 MITO has to be seen to be believed. YouTube has some good videos.


	49. Through the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle near La Crosse intensifies as the GRIMM arrive in force. Even with Beacon throwing everything they have at the GRIMM, will it be enough?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Easily the toughest chapter I've had to write so far. It's a massive furball.

_Former South St. Paul Airport_

_Minnesota Dead Zone, United States of Canada_

_3 May 2001_

The crew chief clambered up the latter. “Sir, try it now!” 

Adam Taurus powered up the Moonslice, and this everything came on the way it was supposed to. He threw the crew chief a thumbs-up, but before he could close the canopy, Sienna Khan dragged off the crew chief and made her way up the ladder. She leaned in so he could hear her better. “The mission’s off!” she shouted. 

“What?”

“It’s off!” she yelled louder. “We lost all contact with the train, and all the fighters are gone! You go up there now, and you’ll just get shot down!”

“I can do it!” Adam yelled back. 

“I _order_ you not to do it!”

Adam reached out, powered down Moonslice, and grabbed her by the front of her shirt. “I am better than all of them,” he hissed.

Sienna slapped his hand away. “Beacon has everything in the air—Watts has been picking up their transmissions. You might get one or two, but the rest will kill you—and you’re all we have left now.”

Adam slammed a fist down on the side console, in frustration, because he knew Sienna was right. “Now what? Do we wait here until the Air Force comes and bombs us to bits, or when the Army sends in _their_ strike force?”

Sienna shook her head. “Watts has found us another hideout. Do you have the fuel to make North Dakota?” The tradeoff for Moonslice’s small size and amazing maneuverability was short range.

“I can make it.”

“We’re loading everything else in the helicopters. Right now the humans are dealing with the GRIMM. We’ll escape before they know we’ve gone.” She touched his shoulder in a rare bit of comradeship. “I’m sorry, Adam. It was just bad luck.”

He nodded. “We lost the battle today, but hardly the war. Give me the coordinates.” 

Sienna handed him a note. “These come from our source in Beacon. Not only coordinates, but passwords—if they haven’t changed them. We may have to fight our way in, but what else is new?”

Adam laughed humorlessly. “All right. Meet you there.” To his surprise, Sienna gave him a quick hug, then dropped down off the ladder. Adam motioned for the crew chief to come back up. “What did you find on the aircraft?”

The chief lowered his voice. “Someone pulled some of the black boxes. They didn’t damage them, just pulled them, in a way not easy to find. That’s why it took so long. No fault of the aircraft or the ground crew.”

Adam rubbed his chin in thought. “Who preflighted _Wilt?”_

The chief gave a quick look around. “Ilia Amitola.”

_Killbox Alpha_

_South of Winona, Minnesota Dead Zone, United States of Canada_

_3 May 2001_

Lie Ren had been accused of being unsympathetic at best to other people’s emotions, or even being emotionless himself. Neither was quite true: he just was not one to let people get to him, or one to wear his emotions on his sleeve.

At the moment, however, he was acutely aware of Nora Valkyrie’s frustration, and shared it with her. 

Below them, in plain sight, was the largest GRIMM army either had ever seen, and they had lived through the horror of GRIMM overrunning a town—and they were restricted from attacking it. He had counted at least fifty Boarbatusks, along with six Goliaths and two Death Stalkers. All of them were headed down the overgrown highway towards La Crosse, through dense woods, and that did not even count the two Nevermores on their way, along with several dozen Beowolves and Ursai, and the King Taijitu hugging the ground over the Boarbatusks. 

And yet they had to sit there, orbiting at 15,000 feet, reporting on the progress of the GRIMM horde and waiting for reinforcements. Both of them, with a full load of ordnance. Ren resisted the urge to kick something, and hoped Nora hadn’t put a hole in her own instrument panel yet. 

“Ren, Cinder. Creamer Flight coming up at your one o’clock level.” Ren looked in that direction, and saw the four aircraft coming in to joining up. _We are certainly diverse,_ he thought to himself. Every one of the six aircraft were different—his J-10, Nora’s A-10, Cinder Fall’s F-15, Emerald Sustrai’s Mirage F.1, Mercury Black’s F-16, and Ruth Lionheart’s Jaguar. 

“Ren, Fox. Coffee Flight joining on your eleven o’clock level.” Ren almost laughed: now he could add the two remaining aircraft of Coffee: Fox Alasdair and Velvet Scarlatina’s Tornado, and Yatsuhachi Datchi’s F-2. 

“Roger,” Ren acknowledged. “Who has command?” He glanced in Cinder’s direction. She was a major, and outranked all of them.

“Ren, Cinder.” She had noticed him looking at her. “You do. You know the situation better than I do.”

Ren took a breath. She was right. Ozpin and Goodwitch had emphasized this in training, and now it was time to put it to good use. Rank didn’t matter; knowledge did here.

“Juniper Three, Regency.” The AWACS had been listening in. “You are designated raid commander Killbox Alpha. Relay from Beacon: BUFFs on the way. Engage and destroy all aerial GRIMM. Ground GRIMM to be engaged at discretion. Cardinal has CAP over Killbox Bravo. Sun, Ruby, and remaining Juniper Flight elements are on their way. Clear skies, repeat, clear skies.” 

“Roger, wilco.” Ren understood: the Boarbatusks and Goliaths could not hurt the B-52s, but the flight-capable GRIMM certainly could. They had to clear the skies for the vulnerable bombers. “Vector to aerial GRIMM?”

“Ren, Regency—GRIMM are at bearing two-zero-zero, range now forty miles, speed five hundred, angels ten. Witch Lead has engaged Beowolves at rear of formation. Raid count is now two Nevermore, thirty Beowolves, eight Ursai.”

Ren remembered another lesson, this one from Wing Commander Port: _when placed in command, command._ “Ren to all Killbox Alpha elements. Turn to two-zero-zero, wall formation; engage when in range and fire at discretion.” He kept his voice typically neutral: some of the pilots would be nervous, especially Creamer, who to the best of his knowledge had never been in an actual fight before. Wall formation would mean salvoing their long-range weapons to kill as many GRIMM as possible before the merge. “Nora: engage Taijitu at your three o’clock low. Ruth, Yatsuhachi, you’re Iron Hand.” 

“Roger.” Yatsuhachi and Ruth both understood: they would be on flak suppression duties, trying to keep some pressure off Nora. He wondered if he were sending all three to their death. Then again, perhaps they were all going to die. Ren thought of his father, who commanded the local militia of his village, who died fighting GRIMM. _So be it._

“Killbox Alpha elements, execute.” He watched for a moment as Ruth’s Jaguar and Yatsuhachi’s F-2 peeled away into a shallow dive. Nora returned his gaze for a moment, put a hand on her canopy, then was gone.

Ren turned as well, to join up with his shooters. The five aircraft spread out in echelon. “Velvet, Ren,” he radioed. “On you.”

“Roger,” Velvet sent back. In the backseat of the Tornado, she alone did not have to divide her attention between flying and watching a radar screen. She tapped in commands to the onboard computer, linking to the radars of the other aircraft. She watched the radar display. The GRIMM were now at thirty miles, already in range of the AMRAAM, but optimal range would be a bit closer. She locked her own radar onto four targets. “Stand by.” The range closed quickly. Three seconds later, she told Fox, “Shoot!”

Fox pulled the trigger, four times. Four of the Sky Flash missiles nestled beneath the Tornado dropped, ignited, and roared away, leaving thick white exhaust plumes. “Alasdair, Fox One.”

“Cinder, Fox Three.”

“Mercury, Fox Three!”

“Ren, Fox Three.”

Only Emerald held her fire; her Mirage had older Super 530F missiles, which would need another thirty seconds to be in range. Even without her, there were now eight AMRAAMs and four Sky Flash heading towards the GRIMM. The GRIMM’s warning recievers went off, and the drones began evasive maneuvers, switching on internal jammers and dropping chaff clouds. The AMRAAMs got there first: three Beowolves and three Ursai vanished. Ren’s command began to lose cohesion as four of them began to switch over to Sidewinders and prepare for the merge; Fox held steady, as the Sky Flash were not fire and forget. The GRIMM tried to evade, but Velvet, with laserlike intensity, kept the radar locked onto them. All four of their missiles hit, downing four Beowolves. Now there were twenty-three Beowolves and seven Ursai. And the two Nevermores, Ren reminded himself.

“Tally-ho on the GRIMM,” Cinder called out. Now the two sides were in visual range. They were at the merge: when both sides would meet each other head-on. 

“Split and engage,” Ren ordered. He climbed, both to gain advantage and to keep situational awareness. Mercury and Emerald both joined up, leaving Cinder to end up covering Fox and Velvet. The Tornado briefly slid into her gunsight, and Cinder ran her finger over the trigger, tempted. Not yet, she cautioned herself. There would be time in the dogfight for “accidents” to happen. 

Emerald and Mercury were first to the GRIMM. An Ursa engaged Mercury: he fired a Sidewinder, but was forced to break away and dive when the Ursa returned fire. Emerald had better luck: she went between two Beowolves, throwing off their targeting solution, then fired both her wingtip Sidewinders. Two Beowolves behind the first pair were hit and went into fatal spirals, trailing flame. “Emerald, splash two.” She lit her afterburner and climbed hard.

Mercury rolled upwards, lined up the Ursa, and fired another Sidewinder. The Ursa rocked with the hit, but didn’t go down, and began turning towards him. He dodged its cannon fire. Emerald saw her wingman. “Mercury, extend out. I got him.” Mercury wasn’t too pleased about that, but a Beowulf was heading in his direction, and he didn’t want to end up as the meat in a GRIMM sandwich. As the F-16 broke away, Emerald, humming tunelessly to herself, locked onto the crippled Ursa, and fired one of her Super 530s. She now had to hold it steady, because like the Sky Flash, the 530 was not fire-and-forget either. 

“Emerald, Ren, you’ve got a Beowulf at your five low.” She ignored the call, waiting a precious second. It paid off; the 530 hit the Ursa and blew it apart. “Break left!” That one Emerald didn’t ignore: she broke hard to the left as a GRIMM missile sailed past, then turned to engage. She barely decoyed it off with a flare; her Mirage rocked with the near miss. Emerald kicked her tail around as the Beowulf closed in with its cannon. “Mercury, I’ve got one on me!”

“Cinder, Fox Two.” The Beowulf exploded. Emerald blew out her breath as the F-15 flew past. “Thanks, Cinder. Good shot.”

Nora spotted the Taijitu below. Named for the Taoist symbol of balance, it was the GRIMM version of the A-10: strictly meant for ground attack, it was straight winged and twin tailed, but instead of a conventional nose, the Taijitu used a catamaran fuselage with two noses, both ending in heavy cannon. The internal weapons bay bulged with heavy ordnance. They were also heavily armored. It was flying straight and level, but the Taijitu was not designed for dogfighting; normally it would be escorted by Beowolves and Ursai. This one was alone, but there were the two Death Stalkers below it. 

“Nora, Ruth, let me get tied in first,” Ruth Lionheart radioed; even in a situation as dire as this one, Nora could not help but smile at the Faunus’ funny accent. “I’ll do a bit of Guy Gibson here.” 

Nora had no idea what Ruth meant. “Go for it, Ruth!”

Ruth throttled up her Jaguar as fast as it could go, just edging past supersonic speed. She shot over the Taijitu and, to Nora’s stunned surprise, even dropped flares. She was making herself a target. Nothing happened. The Taijitu flew on without so much as even a flutter, and none of the Death Stalkers’ turrets turned to follow the Jaguar. “That’s weird,” Nora said to herself. 

“Nora, Yatsu,” Yatsuhachi said. “I think the Taijitu’s out of position. It’s not within the Death Stalkers’ defensive sphere.”

_Oh yeah, that!_ Nora thought. _Guess I should pay more attention in Port’s class instead of writing love letters to Ren._ “Roger that, Yatsu. Let’s paste the bastard.”

“Wait one, Nora. Let me try.” Yatsuhachi accelerated, quickly leaving Nora behind. He positioned himself high and behind the Taijitu, where the GRIMM blocked the Death Stalkers, locked on, and let loose four AMRAAMs. All tracked into the Taijitu, which disappeared in smoke and flame. It came out the other end, and for a moment, Nora pushed up her own throttle and prepared to engage, but then the Taijitu staggered, one of its wings tore free, and the GRIMM spiraled downwards, where it landed on top of one of the Death Stalkers. The latter skittered to one side, but returned to course—minus the missile battery on its “tail.” 

“Yatsu, splash one Taijitu.” He climbed back up to rejoin Nora and Ruth. 

“Well, that wasn’t a chore,” Nora laughed. “Let’s get back up top and get some more!”

Ren put the J-10 into a dive and fired an AMRAAM at a Beowulf that was angling towards Fox and Velvet; Cinder had left protecting the Tornado to save Emerald. The missile struck and destroyed the Beowulf. _So many,_ he thought. _There’s more GRIMM than we have weapons._ He had seen this before: GRIMM were not particularly bright, even for drones, but they killed by sheer numbers. They would swamp the defenses. “Regency, Ren. We need help.”

To Ren’s pleasant surprise, it was not the AWACS that answered, but Jaune. “Ren, Jaune. Pyrrha and I are in from the north. Where do you want us?”

Ren smiled. “Take your pick.”

Jaune had already scored twice today, downing two White Fang MiGs, but it left him only with Sidewinders and his cannon left. Pyrrha was in no better situation. His eyes went to the fuel gauge; it was low, but with some luck they should be all right. “Pyrrha, I’ve got three Beowolves twelve o’clock level.” He had the lead.

“Roger, tally-ho on the Beowolves. Defensive split.”

Jaune waited for a moment. “Break now, Pyrrha! Fox Two!” He fired a Sidewinder at one of the Beowolves, then climbed hard, while Pyrrha fired and dived. Jaune rolled and looked down, and murmured a curse when he saw his missile go wide, chasing a flare. Pyrrha’s hit, and another Beowulf headed for the forest below, trailing flame. One of the Beowolves suddenly climbed to meet him, so Jaune dived. The GRIMM was there and gone in a moment, but he turned hard, and remembering something Pyrrha had taught him, touched his speedbrakes just for a moment. The Mirage slowed, and the Beowulf, confused, ended out in front. He switched to guns as the Beowulf began to weave, trying to throw off his aim.

“Jaune, one behind you!” Pyrrha called out. Jaune could not spare a moment. He closed the range and fired. The heavy cannon shells pounded the Beowulf. It spun to the right, trailing smoke, but wasn’t dead. He followed it down. “Break right! Break right!” Pyrrha shrilled. Jaune slammed the stick to the right, sensing rather than seeing the Beowulf firing at him. 

“Pyrrha?” he called out.

“I’m on him; going to guns. Pull harder!” Jaune pushed the Mirage for all it was worth, grunting with exertion as he tightened the turn to nine-Gs. The GRIMM did not have to worry about hurting a pilot and stayed with him. He saw two cannon shells spiral past his cockpit. “Now would be a good time, Pyrrha!” He was in a tight spiral, and at the speed they were at, it was odds-on which would kill him first, the GRIMM or the forest below. 

“Pyrrha, Fox Two!” Jaune strained against gravity and saw the Beowulf explode. He gratefully pulled out of the spiral and leveled out, trying to get his breath. “Pyrrha, you’ve got lead. Let’s get back in the fight.” He saw two burning fires on the ground, and wondered if the Beowulf he had wounded had gone in. 

They climbed, but Jaune saw an Ursa turning towards them. “Ursa, one o’clock high.”

“You’re covered.” Pyrrha dropped back, watching Jaune’s tail while he engaged.

“Okay, big guy,” Jaune mused, “let’s see what you got.” He found out a moment later when the Ursa’s heavy cannon erupted in front of him. His hand and feet moved quickly, evading the shells, then opened fire himself. He exhausted the Mirage’s ammunition, but it left the Ursa on fire. The tough GRIMM tried to turn as Jaune went past, only to leave itself open to Pyrrha, who finished it off with her own gun.

“Call that shared?” Jaune laughed in spite of the situation.

“Sounds lovely,” Pyrrha replied. He could hear the smile in her voice.

Ren dispatched another Beowulf and watched Fox and Velvet splash an Ursa. Shooting the Beowulf had cost another AMRAAM, while the Tornado was down to its cannon now, all missiles having been expended. “Velvet, Ren, raid count?” He hoped she had been keeping track; he’d lost track.

“Ren, 15 Beowolves, four Ursai, two Nevermore. Tally-ho on the Nevermore.”

“I see them.” It was hard not to. The Nevermore loomed on the horizon, coming out of the clearing cloud cover. Ren climbed back to try and get control of the dogfight, but knew it was probably impossible at this point—and worse, he was taking himself out of the equation, having to settle on picking off strays. The radio was alive with radio calls; luckily the jamming had ended.

“Emerald, break right!”

“Watch for the Beowulf at nine o’clock low, Jaune!”

“Pyrrha here; I’m on that one.”

“Cinder, splash two.”

“Pyrrha, splash two.”

_Two more Beowolves. 13 now,_ Ren thought to himself. _We’re killing them, but not fast enough!_

“Ren, Witch Lead, joining on your left.” He looked over and saw Goodwitch’s F-22 turning in, and his heart soared. A F-22 would do a lot to turn the tide. 

“Witch Lead, good to see you.”

“Same here, Ren, but I’m Winchester.” Ren sighed involuntarily; Goodwitch was out of ammunition. “I got six of the bastards, but had to work my way around. I’ll take over as raid commander; rejoin your flight.” She paused. “Nice job.”

“Thank you, Witch Lead.” Ren spotted a Ursa angling in at the Tornado and dived to engage. 

Goodwitch took a breath and switched frequencies. Ren _had_ done a good job, but he simply did not have the experience in this sort of furball, the fighter pilot term for a giant dogfight like this. It was easy to get overwhelmed. Now that she was here—and with not even anything left in her gun—she needed to bring her experience to bear. “Regency, Witch Lead; taking command of Killbox Alpha. Release Cardinal from BARCAP Killbox Bravo, send them west buster. ETA on Sun Flight?”

“Roger, Witch. Be advised Cardinal is Tiger but low on A2A, bingo plus seven. Sun is sweet, ETA one minute.” Goodwitch translated that as Cardinal was able to help, but short on missiles and fuel. She would have to chance it, anything would help now. “Relay from Winter Flight: when do you expect clear skies?”

_How the hell should I know?_ “ETA on Winter?”

“Five minutes before they’re in your AO.”

“Fuck!” Goodwitch said without hitting the radio button. The Beowolves could probably be kept away from the B-52s, but the Nevermores would tear them apart. Her original plan was to let the Nevermores go and let the Mississippi River Barrier SAM crews take them on, but the B-52s had to be on station to destroy the ground GRIMM. 

“Ren, Nora, we’re coming up on your six low. Where you want us?”

Goodwitch heard the call and interrupted Ren’s reply. She spotted the A-10, Jaguar and F-2. “All Juniper Flight elements. Engage that first Nevermore. Coffee, cover them. Creamer, Sun, Cardinal: continue engaging Beowolves and Ursai.” Goodwitch let the radio go for a moment, then resumed. “Ruby Flight, location?”

There was no answer.


	50. Shoot For Thrill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are starting to get desperate: the Beacon flights have inflicted heavy damage on the GRIMM, but there's still two Nevermores left--and the B-52s can't come in until the skies are clear. Goodwitch realizes there are more GRIMM than they have weapons.

_La Crosse_

_Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_3 May 2001_

Sentinel Six coasted to a halt at the interchange of Highway 53 and Interstate 90, where the 1st Armored Division’s 37th Armored Regiment, 2nd Battalion had its headquarters. Military policemen directed Karelia Bighorn-Vlata’s tank through the interchange, which was choked with people trying to escape La Crosse. The Abrams pulled up next to the command post, underneath the interchange. Karelia pulled herself out of the turret, turned, and kept her pistol trained on Roman Torchwick, who was pushed out by the loader and gunner. Once Torchwick was deposited not so gently on the ground, Karelia helped Sky Lark out of the turret and jumped down next to him. 

Colonel Evan Ridinghood walked out of the command post, four APCs joined by a camouflage net. “Afternoon, Karelia. Who’s this?” He pointed at Torchwick. 

“Afternoon, Colonel. He’s an air pirate who got himself shot down—Roman Torchwick.” She thumbed at Sky. “This guy’s okay. He’s out of Beacon. Lieutenant Sky Lark.”

Ridinghood nodded to Sky, then helped a burly MP pull Torchwick to his feet. “Torchwick, huh? I heard of you. You’re going in for all day, son.”

“Oh noes,” Torchwick said with mock gravity, “I can’t believe you caught me! You’ve shown me the error of my ways!” This did not amuse the MP, who began dragging him towards a waiting HMMWV. “Easy, there. That’s a tailored flight suit.”

“You want to ride with him, Lieutenant?” Ridinghood asked Sky. “I don’t advise staying here. There’s a world of hurt coming.”

Despite himself, Sky answered, “If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’ll stay. It will be interesting to see things from eye level.” In reality, he wanted nothing more than to shove Torchwick to one side and ride to wherever they were taking the pirate. His pride as a fighter pilot, however, compelled him to stay: he was not going to allow these groundpounders to see him run.

“Suit yourself, Lieutenant. I’ll put you with my forward air control team.” He motioned towards the CP. Sky saluted and walked in that direction.

Ridinghood turned to Karelia. “Take Team Sentinel and put them on the east approach to the bridge. Division wants you guys on French Island.” He referred to the island that split the Mississippi into two branches just west of the city of La Crosse. 

“Wonderful. My back is going to be to the river. What asshole thought of that idea?”

“Me,” Ridinghood snapped at her. “I don’t want to do it, Karelia, but there’s no way we’re getting the refugees off in time.”

“Why don’t we just blow the bridges on the other side of the island?”

Ridinghood shook his head. “Don’t have the stuff to knock down bridges that big, and the mayor nixed it, if you can believe it. These people have gotten complacent, and now they’re terrified. We can’t bring up any reinforcements because of that.” He pointed to the interchange above them. “Traffic’s backed up for miles. If the GRIMM get in there…”

Karelia sighed. “Let me guess. Not one step back for Team Sentinel.”

“Not one step back for the whole fucking 1st Armored. Might not be so bad, though. The boys at Beacon are calling in the big guns. We got B-52s inbound.”

“Well, hell, sir,” Karelia smiled. “Might be an easy day.”

“Yeah, well, the jetters are cutting it close. The leading edge of the Boarbatusks will be here in seven minutes, and the B-52s won’t enter the AO unless the fighters have cleared it. And so far, they haven’t.”

“Tell them to call in more fighters!” Karelia yelled, forgetting rank for a minute. “Gad, it’s bad enough the Air Force and Navy gets all the money, and now they can’t do their fucking job?”

“Sky down, big chief,” Ridinghood warned. “They _have_ called in more.” He was cut off by the roar of jet engines as Cardinal Flight engaged their afterburners and headed west.

“That’s three airplanes,” Karelia observed dryly.

“Yep. That’s the ‘more.’ Well, we’ve still got the Barrier SAMs if we need them.” He patted her shoulder. “Sentinel needs to be on that bridge, Captain.”

_Killbox Alpha_

_South of Winona, Minnesota Dead Zone, United States of Canada_

_3 May 2001_

Jaune Arc spared a glance at his fuel gauge, wished he hadn’t, and took the lead, Pyrrha on his right, Ren on his right, a burning Beowulf in his wake. Nora was still climbing to join them. “Juniper, this is Jaune!” he puffed out. Dogfighting dried out the mouth and worked up quite the sweat. “We’re going in. We cover Nora. Nora, it’s up to you!”

“Roger that!”

Jaune said a quick prayer, and accelerated at the Nevermore. It looked just as malevolent as the one Ruby Flight had fought on their first mission, and even at this range, he could see hatches iris open and turrets raise into place. The Nevermore opened fire, and Jaune twisted and turned, knowing that every tracer he spotted was only every fifth shell, and he couldn’t see the others. Another quick check of how many missiles he had left—one AMRAAM and his cannon—and he fired the AMRAAM. Pyrrha fired a second later. Both hit the front of the Nevermore, but if they did much damage, Jaune couldn’t tell. Ren, who had more missiles, did more damage, and Jaune saw two turrets turn to slag. 

Then he was skimming over the Nevermore. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw turrets spinning to engage him, Pyrrha and Ren, but the Nevermore’s brain was not used to engaging this many targets. He opened fire with his cannon for moral effect, then they were past. “C’mon, Nora!” he called out.

Nora arrived a second later. Jaune’s plan had worked: the turrets did not notice the A-10 until it was too late. She put the nose down and braced as she was thrown forward by the recoil of the heavy GAU-8. Thirty millimeter shells marched the length of the Nevermore and she was rewarded with the huge GRIMM visibly rocking with the hits. “Behold the might of the hammer, motherfucker!” Nora crowed, and as she came away from the Nevermore, she craned her head backwards. The Nevermore was smoking, still flying, but wounded. “One more pass,” she said aloud. 

“ _Nora! Break right!”_ Ren shouted.

Nora slammed the stick right, but then something hit the A-10 with a tremendous blow. The stick was torn out of her hands, her helmet slammed into the canopy, and alarms went off. The Warthog staggered, then stalled, then went into a flat spin. 

The Beowulf that had hit her with a missile didn’t care. It still had another missile left, and it locked onto the spinning A-10. Ren pulled the J-10 into a turn so tight that the airframe audibly groaned under the strain, but he was out of position. Still, he tried.

“Sun, Fox Two!” Sun Wukong’s Ching Kuo dived out of the sun. The Beowulf vanished a split-second before it fired. “Nora, you’re in a flat spin! Bail out! Bail out!” he yelled.

Nora couldn’t reply even if she wanted to. The centrifugal force was pressing her to the side of the cockpit. She fought against gravity, grabbed the stick, and rammed it into the instrument panel, holding it there with every ounce of strength she possessed. The A-10’s nose dropped, air flowed over the wings again, and the Gs eased as she got control back. 

She still had to pull out. Nora got herself back into position, and now pulled the stick back into her lap. The A-10’s engines strained, and she saw the forests of Minnesota come up to meet her. “Not yet,” Nora breathed, “not yet; I’m too damn cute to die!” She felt the Warthog hit the trees, then she was free, back in open air. As she climbed, more alarms went off, then she felt the starboard engine die. 

“Nora, Ren! Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” Nora saw her hands were shaking badly. The aircraft wasn’t handling well. “Lost an engine.” She saw Ren’s J-10 come up alongside. “How bad?”

“Your nose is shredded, and you’ve got tail damage.” 

Nora had noticed that. Reluctantly, she reached forward and hit a red button. Every remaining piece of ordnance on the A-10 dropped away. “Witch Lead, Nora. I’m Winchester and RTB.”

“Roger, Nora. Understood. Ren, say state.”

“Three actives, full guns.” He still had three missiles left.

“Witch, Pyrrha. I’m Winchester. I’ll escort her back. Still have some guns left,” she lied. Pyrrha’s F-16 came in alongside Nora’s A-10. “I’ll cover her, Ren.” 

Ren hated to leave Nora, but knew he had to. He put a hand on his canopy for a moment, saw it returned, and climbed back into the fight. 

_La Crosse_

_Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_3 May 2001_

Karelia Bighorn-Vlata looked through her binoculars. There were no GRIMM visible yet, but it couldn’t be much longer. She leaned back to look at the sky. There were distant rumbles of explosions, and she could see smoke rising from the horizon, beyond the cliffs that dominated the Minnesota side of the river. Smoke trails crisscrossed the sky, and they were getting closer. To the north, she saw another, far denser smoke cloud still rising. _At least we don’t have to worry about the train,_ she thought. _That would’ve stung._

She had her tanks arrayed on the bridge and the streets surrounding it. Her team knew that retreat was highly unlikely, but behind them there were people still streaming across the bridge. They had abandoned their cars and were on foot. Sentinel had to hold, at least for awhile. Behind her tanks were her infantry, armed with Javelin antitank missiles, and her Bradleys, their TOW launchers raised. 

Some brave soul in a OH-58 Kiowa scout helicopter was hovering where the highway descended from the cliffs. “Sentinel Six, White Wolf Five One. Spot report. GRIMM in sight, distance ten miles.” She saw the Kiowa raise up, turn, and retreat back into the woods, where it resumed its scanning, the masthead sight the only thing that was exposed over the cliffs. Behind Team Sentinel, there were a dozen AH-64 Apaches, looking like malevolent wasps, armed to the teeth with Hydra rockets and Hellfire missiles. The problem was, the Apaches would be in trouble against the Death Stalkers, who were designed to engage much faster targets. This is where combined arms would come in—the Air Force would engage the Death Stalkers to free up the Apaches to engage the Goliaths and Boarbatusks—but the Air Force was busy. 

“Sentinel Six, roger that.”

Her loader stuck his head out of the turret. “How’s it looking?”

“Sammy, if the Air Force doesn’t get its head out of its ass, we’re going to need buckets to catch the lead.” 

_Killbox Alpha_

_South of Winona, Minnesota Dead Zone, United States of Canada_

_3 May 2001_

“Creamer, Witch. Make the next pass. Sun and Cardinal Flights, keep the Beowolves off,” Goodwitch radioed.

“Roger,” Cinder replied. There was no shirking this; the Nevermore arriving over Beacon would ruin everyone’s plans—and in all honesty, Cinder had no intention of doing it anyway. Her blood was up, and she’d spent the battle with a death’s head grin behind her oxygen mask. She might be Salem’s knight, she might have training in infiltration and silent killing, but at heart, Cinder Fall had always been a fighter pilot. This is what she lived for, more than Salem, more than anything: the hunt and the kill. She casually dispatched another Beowulf with a missile shot, and led Creamer flight against the Nevermore. 

Like Juniper had, Cinder, Emerald and Mercury lofted their missiles into the Nevermore, then switched over to guns. Ruth brought up the rear as Cardin and Dove, down to their last missiles, covered her from any Beowolves or Ursai. Her Jaguar was equipped with two heavy cannon and four Sidewinders; it might be enough.

Yet the Nevermore, primitive brain it might have, had learned. It had analyzed the first attack, realized that the initial attacks would be decoys, and concentrated on the last aircraft in line. Heavy shells tracked on the Jaguar, and though Ruth spun the aircraft, three hit: one in the nose, one in the canopy, and one in the left engine. The windscreen caved in and starred, but held; the engine exploded and sent fragments spiraling into the other, and something in the nose started burning, filling the cockpit with smoke. “God’s truth,” Ruth grumbled, and hit the radio as she climbed away from the Nevermore’s guns. “Witch, Ruth, I’m hit.”

Goodwitch saw the smoking Jaguar. “Roger, Ruth. RTB. Sun Flight, stand by, you’re up--”

“I’m not done yet!” Ruth shouted. She pulled a lever on the side of the instrument panel, which she could now barely see because of the smoke, and blew the canopy off. The slipstream instantly cleared the smoke. Her instrument panel was lit up like the proverbial Christmas tree, warning that the other engine was going to fail soon, but Ruth Lionheart would be well and truly damned before she left her first battle without a kill. She rolled the Jaguar and dived on the Nevermore from above, keeping her head below the windscreen so the near-supersonic slipstream didn’t tear her head off. Of course, now she could barely see through the starred plexiglass, but to Ruth, that was a minor annoyance. 

By pure accident, her attack worked. Sun was already leading Scarlet, Sage and Neptune in a missile attack, and the Nevermore was concentrated on that, its electronic brain having classified the Jaguar as destroyed. Too late, proximity sensors picked up the diving aircraft, but by that time, Ruth salvoed her Sidewinders. All four easily tracked on the burning Nevermore and hit. As the GRIMM shuddered, Ruth skimmed past it, barely avoided a collision, and put some shots into the Nevermore with her cannon for good measure. “Eat a _dick!”_ she shouted as she went past. It wasn’t the best battle cry, but it was the best she could come up with on short notice.

“Sun Flight, hold fire and break off!” Goodwitch ordered. 

Sun, Scarlet and Neptune scattered a second before they would’ve fired. Sage, on the other hand, had already fired both his Sparrows and Sidewinders. “ _Cazzo!”_ he cursed, and pushed up the throttle. The F-104 easily broke the sound barrier, even as his missiles missed. 

It didn’t matter. The Nevermore seemed to hesitate in midair, then its right wing—already weakened by Nora and finished off by Ruth—broke and then tore free. The GRIMM went into a flat spin and pancaked into the forest, then exploded. “Got him!” Emerald couldn’t help but call out.

“Roger that. Beacon, Witch. Splash one Nevermore. Still one left. ETA Winter?”

“Three minutes, Witch.” 

“Ruth here. I’m afraid that’s it for me, chaps.” Goodwitch looked in that direction, and she could see the Jaguar in a gentle climb. “Flameout. I’ll try and keep her in the air as long as I can.”

“Regency, relay to Beacon; scramble Jolly Greens.” The AWACS acknowledged, and Goodwitch sealed Ruth Lionheart off in a section of her mind. There were still just under a dozen Beowolves left, plus a handful of Ursai—and the one Nevermore. 

“Witch Lead, Blake. Squawk flash.”

Goodwitch quickly repeated the message to everyone in Killbox Alpha. “Blake, Witch. We’re sweet.”

“Roger, Witch. Blake, Fox Three.”

Goodwitch looked for the familiar sight of the Tomcat, but did not see it. She did see smoke trails on the horizon, and knew: Blake had fired Phoenix missiles. The huge missiles curved through the sky, then dived into the Nevermore at Mach 3. Both hit, and the GRIMM rocked. Its turrets swiveled in vain, trying to find the target. 

“Witch Lead, Ruby. We’re here. Sorry it took so long.”

Goodwitch smiled. “Ruby, say state.”

“Ruby has two heat, Yang has four actives, Weiss one active, and Blake has two actives. All of us have guns.”

“Killbox Alpha elements, Witch. Who has the most left?”

There was silence on the channel as everyone checked whatever was left. “Neptune here. I have six actives.” 

Goodwitch nodded to herself. Neptune now had the best chance of bringing down the Nevermore. “All Killbox Alpha elements: cover Neptune.”

Whatever controlled the GRIMM—or perhaps it was the GRIMM themselves—had deduced their opponents’ plan. The remaining smaller aerial GRIMM clustered around the Nevermore to protect it. Below, the Goliaths, Death Stalkers and Boarbatusks continued their inexorable march, turning south on the overgrown highway towards La Crosse and the Mississippi River, now only ten miles away.

“This is Neptune; making my run, west to east.” Neptune stood the Hornet on its wing and came in at the rear of the Nevermore. The GRIMM turned and swarmed towards him, but Sun and Creamer Flights were ready on his right side, while Ruby Flight took up position on his right. Sage Ayana firewalled his throttle and shot past at twice the speed of sound: flat out speed was the F-104’s forte, and nothing could touch it. He was acting as a decoy, too fast for the Nevermore’s turrets to track, but enough to make the huge GRIMM notice.

Neptune was not particularly religious, but he crossed himself anyway, opened the throttle, and closed the distance. The AMRAAMs were already locked on, but he wanted to make sure they hit. He was seized with the sudden impulse to radio Weiss and demand a kiss if he survived this, but the wild notion was past in a second. 

Neptune Vasillas’ world narrowed to the rear, flattened engines of the Nevermore. He ignored everything else, even as tracers from the GRIMM skipped across this wings. The Hornet shuddered with a hit and one of his wingtip missile rails disappeared, along with the Sidewinder. A Beowulf dived at him from above, was destroyed by Cinder, and Neptune flew through the smoke, hearing fragments rattle across the fuselage. 

Then he had the shot he wanted. “Neptune, Fox Three.” He squeezed the trigger six times. All six AMRAAMs left the rails and tracked on the Nevermore. He climbed hard, going to afterburner and hoping no one was in his way. 

Everyone in Killbox Alpha held their breath. 

All six hit. The Nevermore pitched up and down, as if someone had kicked it, then explosions rippled along the central spine. The GRIMM suddenly went up in a tremendous explosion, both wings folding over the center, and the burning remains fell into the forest. Goodwitch let out a breath in relieft. “Regency, Winter from Witch: splash two Nevermore.”

“Witch, Winter.” Goodwitch recognized Winter Schnee’s voice. “Aerial GRIMM remaining?”

“About half a dozen, total.”

“Good enough. We’re coming in.” 

_La Crosse_

_Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_3 May 2001_

“Holy shit,” Karelia breathed. The western horizon was a mass of flames and smoke. The cliffs had blocked the Nevermore until the moment it crashed, but even through her helmet, she had heard it coming like the angel of death. A F-15 and a F-16 shot over the cliffs and rocketed over head, and Karelia couldn’t resist punching the air. “That’s the style, boys!” she yelled after them. “That’s the style!”

White Wolf Five One spoiled the moment. “Sentinel Six, White Wolf Five One, spot report, GRIMM now five miles. Should break cover in two minutes.”

“Okay, now we’re in it.” Karelia keyed her mike. “Sentinel Six to Sentinel elements. Occupy firing positions and stand by to engage.”

“Bravo Two Five, air raid warning, north.” Karelia turned in that direction, and felt her mouth go dry as two Beowolves streaked out of the cliffs and headed across the river. Both suddenly exploded, and a moment later another F-15 came into view. It turned and came over Team Sentinel’s positions, rocking its wings. Karelia waved, wondering when the USAF had started painting its fighters with yellow noses. “Bravo Two Five, cancel that.” 

In the wake of the F-15’s passing, it was suddenly quiet. Karelia raised her helmet just a little, and in the distance, she could just barely hear trees being crushed and branches snapping. The turret on her Abrams turned slightly to face northwest. But now there was a new sound, coming from the east, a dim roar. She turned in her hatch, raised her binoculars, and could not stifle a gasp as contrails came into view. Then multiplied.

“Cap, you okay?”

“Oh my God,” Karelia breathed. 

“Cap?”

She dropped down into the turret and shut her hatch. “Here comes the rain, boys.”


	51. The Longest Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter's B-52s arrive. Will it be enough, or will the GRIMM break through to La Crosse? And even if they are stopped, there's pilots down, who have to be rescued before the GRIMM get them, too. 
> 
> And Ruby's losing fuel...

_La Crosse_

_Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_3 May 2001_

  
  
The six B-52s spread out slightly. Winter wanted maximum coverage. They were at eighteen thousand feet—a little lower than usual, but she also wanted to make sure they would not short round and hit the Army troops below. 

“Pilot, bombardier. We’re at the IP, steady on course. Drop in three minutes.” He touched a button. “Doors open.” Behind and below the cockpit the bomb bay doors slowly dropped open. “Stand by.”

Winter looked out the cockpit windows. Below here, the forest was filled with smoke where GRIMM had gone down. Fighters milled around. “Witch Lead to all Killbox Alpha elements. Clear the airspace. Keep any remaining GRIMM away from the bombers.” Winter smiled. She could see nothing flying that was enemy. The fighter pilots had done their job. Now it was the bombers’ turn.

“EWO, pilot, countermeasures.” 

“Pilot, EWO, countermeasures on.” Each B-52 was already radiating enough electronic jamming to fry any radar, but now chaff bundles and flares dropped from the bombers at random intervals. 

“On my mark,” the bombardier said. He sounded bored. “Three…two…one.” A pause. “Bombs away.”

Winter felt the B-52 jolt, then begin to rise as seventy thousand pounds of bombs fell from the bomb bay. It lasted about two minutes, then the bombardier reported the bay doors closing. Winter leaned over the pilots as Smitty turned on the bomber’s electro-optical viewing system—a fancy name for two television cameras beneath the nose. He pointed them downwards. Winter could just make out the last bombs falling.

A few seconds passed. Then she saw the first detonate. Circular shockwaves reached out from each small explosion, then more and more until they were overlapping—and that was just from her bomber. 

Yang pulled up and climbed, quickly leaving behind the river and La Crosse; she had strayed dangerously close to the bomb path, and getting caught underneath B-52s was a way to experience a short and exciting life. Now she had a front row seat.

The first B-52 dropped its bombs, and the last bomb was not gone from the bomb bay before the second started, and then the third. With good visibility and little wind, the bomb run was perfect. She watched in awe as the bombs exploded. She figured each B-52 carried a full load, and remembered the maximum capacity of B-52H from her days in officers’ school—70,000 pounds each. With six B-52s, that meant 420,000 pounds of high explosive was raining down on the GRIMM.

The GRIMM ceased to exist. Even the Death Stalkers could not survive the massive amounts of ordnance being dropped on them. Shockwaves snapped the legs off the Goliaths, and they fell to their knees, to be finished off by yet more bombs. The comparatively less armored Boarbatusks were blown apart. The last B-52 timed its drop so that its final bombs landed on the ridgeline only three miles from the tanks of Team Sentinel, rattling the tank crews but doing no damage. 

“Witch to Winter,” Yang heard Goodwitch say as the B-52s came off the bomb run. “I’ll give you some BDA.”

“Witch, Yang. I’ll follow you down.”

“Good idea, Yang. Witch is in, west to east. Yang, follow me in trail.” Yang clicked her mike twice and dived, settling in behind Goodwitch’s F-22. They came around a ridge, and Yang’s breath caught in her throat. What had been a verdant forest overlooking an old highway was no longer: it was the surface of the moon. Highway and valley was gone, replaced by torn earth, splintered trees, and the smoking remains of GRIMM. Nothing moved, let alone fired back. Yang followed Goodwitch into a climb. “Witch to Winter. BDA 100 percent. All targets destroyed. Bravo Zulu, BUFFs.” 

“That’s good to hear, Witch.” Yang could hear the relief in Winter’s voice. “We are RTB.”

Goodwitch returned to altitude. “Regency, relay to La Crosse: all GRIMM destroyed. Stand down from alert.” After the AWACS acknowledged, Goodwitch had one last thing to do. “All Killbox Alpha elements, form on me. Flight leaders, do a check in. Ruby?”

“Ruby Flight, check in,” Yang heard Ruby call out. 

“Weiss.”

“Blake.”

Yang keyed her mike. “Yang.” They’d all made it. In fact, if her calculations were correct, she was in the clubhouse now—Yang was an ace too. _Stick that in your ear, Rubes,_ she thought good naturedly. 

She listened to all the other flights check in. Juniper was short Nora and Pyrrha, but they were nearly back to Beacon—they would be fine. Cardinal was short Sky Lark, but that was also known; Ruby had seen his parachute come down near some Army pukes, so he was probably okay too. 

“Creamer Lead,” she heard Cinder Fall say. “Creamer Four is down. She bailed out about a minute ago. Negative beeper. All other Creamers fine.” _Negative beeper,_ Yang thought, seeing the vivacious Faunus in her mind’s eye. That could mean anything, though.

“Sun Lead.” That was Sun Wukong. “All in. Sage and Neptune are already RTB.”

“Coffee Two? Yatsu?” Witch asked. Coco was already back at Beacon, having somehow gotten home. 

It was a moment before Yatsuhachi came back up. “Witch, Yatsu. Coffee Three is not checking in.”

“Coffee Three, this is Witch,” Goodwitch said. “Check in.” Nothing. Goodwitch repeated herself. “Regency, have you heard from Coffee Three Alpha or Bravo?” The AWACS replied in the negative, then tried to contact either Fox or Velvet. There was no answer. Goodwitch repeated the call once more. “Jolly Greens, are you listening?”

“This is Jolly Green 83. Roger.”

“Jolly Green, Coffee Three and Creamer Four are down. Negative beeper.”

“Witch, Jolly Green 83, Jolly Green 84 has a flare about thirty miles south of Killbox Alpha. No ground fire, so we’re moving in.” Yang breathed a sigh of relief. That should be where Ruth bailed out at. If she could fire a flare, she was at least uninjured enough to do so. “Location on Coffee Three Alpha and Bravo?”

“Unknown, Jolly Green. We didn’t even know they were down.” 

Yang looked at her fuel gauge. Except for maybe Blake’s F-14, her Silent Eagle had the most fuel of any aircraft in the air. Everyone else had to be short, but she still had at least two hours left. “Witch, Yang. I can RESCAP. Fuel’s good.”

“Witch, Blake. I can stay as well.” The F-14 was designed for long patrols as well.

“Roger. Yang, Blake, assume RESCAP.” They would cover the vulnerable Jolly Greens as rescue combat air patrol—RESCAP. There probably wasn’t anything left to oppose them, but RESCAP also provided more eyes. They had to find Fox and Velvet. _Shit,_ Yang thought, _if they even got out. And if they did, we gotta hope the GRIMM didn’t get them, or they didn’t land in the bomb pattern. Wonder what got them?_

Then a bad situation got worse. “Witch, Ruby. I think I might have a problem here. I’m at bingo minus eight.” Yang’s eyes quickly found the red-trimmed F-16. There was a puff of white smoke behind it, then more. Her throat tightened. Ruby was losing fuel. 

“Ruby, you’re trailing fuel.” Weiss had noticed it as well. “Can you make Beacon?”

A second or two passed, the longest seconds in Yang’s life. “Negative.”

A new voice entered the channel. “Ruby, this is Brown Anchor. We’re at bearing three zero zero, ten miles. Can you make it?”

“Yeah—roger that, Brown Anchor! Heading for you right now.”

“Brown Anchor, Witch,” Goodwitch sent out. “Meet her halfway if possible, on my authority.” Goodwitch was taking a chance. Tankers were not supposed to cross into the Dead Zones under any circumstances. 

“Roger that, Witch.”

“Blake, RESCAP on station.” Yang heard the radio call, and had to shut Ruby out of her mind. She had to cover the Jolly Greens.

Ruby watched her fuel gauge with increasing alarm. Not really alarm, she thought to herself—just a lot of concern. She didn’t remember getting hit, but in the confusion and excitement of the battle, it could have happened. But she was losing fuel, and if she didn’t get some in five minutes, she was going to be joining Sky, Ruth, Velvet and Fox on the ground. She could glide over to Wisconsin, so assuming she wasn’t hurt in the ejection, she would be all right, but she didn’t want to leave _Crescent Rose_ unless it was life or death. The gauge hovered maddeningly just over zero. There was always a little bit left in the tanks that didn’t show up on the gauges, or so fighter pilot superstition always held. 

Then she saw the tanker. It was one of the older KC-135s, probably older than Ozpin, but still serving. The dark camouflage stood out against the blue sky and scattered clouds. As she watched, the tanker began to turn. “Brown Anchor, Ruby Lead, tally-ho.”

“Roger, Ruby; got you in sight.” She saw the boom lower from the back of the aircraft. 

_Got to do this in one shot._ Ruby made a quick check of the sky around her—Weiss was well off and to the right. “Weiss, fuel state?”

“I’m fine, Ruby. You’re losing more fuel.” Ruby kicked the tail around, and could see the white stream behind her.

“Brown Anchor, Ruby. You sure you want to try this?” Ruby really didn’t want to eject, but a stray spark hitting that fuel stream might blow up both aircraft. She could eject, but the tanker crew couldn’t. 

“We got you, Ruby.” The tanker crew wasn’t going to give up that easily. 

“Roger.” Ruby took a breath, eased up the throttle a little, opened the refueling door on the F-16’s spine, and closed in on the tanker. The boom came down above her. Another quick check of the sky and the instrument panel. Ruby now had to be truly an extension of her aircraft: she had to watch the boom, watch the spacing to avoid a collision. The boom’s tip went over the canopy, only three feet away, and she had to resist the urge to duck. The boom operator knew his job, though. “Ruby, up a bit, little more speed.” The boom closed. “Little more up.” Ruby moved the stick. “Contact.” She felt the boom hit home. Ruby stole a glance at the fuel gauge. It went up just a little. “You’re receiving.”

“Brown Anchor, not getting a lot here. I think I’m losing it almost as fast as you’re giving it.”

There was a pause. “Ruby, we’ll tow you home.” 

Ruby sighed. “Roger, Brown Anchor. Thank you.” It wasn’t a real tow, of course, but Ruby would remain on the boom all the way back to Beacon. 

Blake swept over the forest below. It was dense—it would have been dense even before the nuclear war, but without humans to manage it, it was overgrown and thick. She split her time between her own eyesight and the TCS below _Gambol Shroud’s_ nose. 

“Jolly Green 83, Ruby Three. Tally-ho on the crash site.” Blake saw Yang’s F-15 fly low over a small ridge and waggle her wings. Blake was there a moment later. The Tornado had hit the top of the ridge, but there was nothing left of the aircraft besides a blackened streak. Usually there was a tail left, but not in this case. Blake could tell that the aircraft had hit flat, but there was no way to tell if the canopy was still there. She throttled back and went around again, dipping the F-14’s wing. The TCS was not as helpful as she’d like.

Then Blake saw the flash. “Jolly Green, Ruby Four! Flash at my three o’clock low!” She dropped her flaps, going as slow as she could without risking a stall. If there were any GRIMM left, they could not miss. She was less worried about that as she was about the flash. It could be anything—a shiny piece of wreckage, old or new, a random piece of metal, a GRIMM, or a signal mirror. Then she saw the flash again. Blake raised her flaps and began a tight circle around where the flash was. “Coffee Three Alpha, Coffee Three Bravo, this is Ruby Four,” Blake radioed. “Come up. Fox, Velvet, come up on Guard.”

There was nothing. Blake made another circuit, and noticed Yang was doing the same thing at a higher altitude, then dropped flares. “Coffee Three Alpha—“

Static crackled. “Ruby Three, Coffee Three Bravo!” Blake recognized Velvet’s accent, even through the tinny survival radio. “Sure is good to hear your voice! Coffee Three Alpha is here with me. Popping flare.” A thin trail of smoke came up from the woods, to burn red.

“Tally-ho on the flare!” Blake called out happily. “Jolly Green 83, do you have the flare?”

“Roger that, Ruby Four. Coffee Three Bravo, we need you to pop smoke.”

There was a pause. “Popping smoke,” Velvet said, and Blake saw purple smoke curling up through the trees. “I have a purple,” Jolly Green 83 called out. “Coming in. Coffee Three Bravo, say condition.”

“I’m okay,” Velvet said, forgetting radio parlance for a moment. “Fox is hurt.”

“Rubies are holding high,” Blake said, and followed Yang into a holding pattern. The Jolly Green—officially known as the Sikorsky MH-53J Super Jolly Green Giant—whirred in from the east. It stopped and hovered over the thin wisps of purple smoke. As Blake made another orbit, she saw the tiny figure of the parajumper go out on the cable; at the base of it was a flower-shaped, metallic device called a jungle penetrator. It would force its way through the trees by weight, then could be folded out on as seats. The cable and the PJ went down into the trees.

Blake’s mouth was dry. If any GRIMM had escaped the B-52 strike, they could not pass up such a tempting target. She kept her eyes on the forest around the Jolly Green, praying there would be no movement or ground fire. 

There wasn’t. Moments later, the cable came back up, and even at the distance they were at, Blake could see the PJ, Fox and Velvet. The PJ was holding Fox onto the penetrator. “Regency, Jolly Green 83. Coffee Three’s recovered. Repeat, two pilots in the clubhouse.”

“Make that three, Regency!” Jolly Green 84 sang out. “Creamer Four’s aboard and won’t stop talking.”

Blake grinned. “Jolly Greens, Ruby Four. Let’s get the hell out of Dodge.” She and Yang crisscrossed over the helicopter as it turned east and headed for the river.

It was only ten minutes, if that, but for Ruby Rose, it was the longest ten minutes of her life. Not only did she have to stay connected to the KC-135, but she had to stay connected as it entered a shallow dive. It was called tobogganing, and one mistake could end up with two wrecked airplanes. Ruby solemnly promised never to make fun of tanker crews again.

“Beacon in sight,” Brown Anchor called out. “Ruby Lead, we’re going to drop you off here.”

“Roger, roger,” Ruby replied in relief. “Hey, Brown Anchor, I owe you guys a case of beer.” She was underage to buy it, but she’d find a way.

“We’ll hold you to that,” the boomer replied. “Disconnect…now.” The boom came out, and raised back towards the tanker. Ruby closed the refueling door and descended faster as the tanker turned south, towards its base at Milwaukee. 

“Beacon, Ruby Lead,” she called out. “Declaring emergency. Need straight in approach. Fuel critical.”

“Ruby Lead, Beacon,” the controller replied, calmly. He had been handling emergencies all day. “You are cleared to Runway 03 Right. 03 Left is blocked due to crash. Cleared for straight-in approach. Winds are calm, visibility 20 miles. You need no longer respond to transmissions.” The controller was not going to distract her. Since conditions were good, he probably would not need to.

Now it was a race. Ruby lowered the landing gear, which caused drag, which ate into her fuel. She switched off the low fuel alarm. She hated to, but she was coming in too fast, which meant she had to drop her flaps some. More drag. Ruby found herself breathing hard into her mask. The runway was right in front of her, but if her engine died, she would have to eject. _Just a little more, Crescent Rose. Just a little more._

The “piano keys” of the runway threshold slipped underneath the F-16. Ruby counted down the altitude in her head, then felt the main gears touch the runway. The aircraft slowed, and she popped her speedbrakes to slow it more. Then, gently, she put _Crescent Rose’s_ nose gear down. It was actually one of her better landings; she didn’t leave a puff of smoke. “Whew,” she said. “What a day.”

She taxied into the hardstand, passing the wreckage of Coco Adel’s Mirage F.1. It lay on its side, one wing bent upwards, the nose cone gone. The canopy was gone as well, but the seat was there and empty, which meant Coco had at least survived the crash. Ruby was one of the last to come in, and the crowd that had formed around the others parted to let her park. As she turned into the hardstand, the engine finally died; inertia carried her into her parking space. Once it had stopped, Ruby reached out and patted the instrument panel. “Good job today, baby.” She opened the canopy and looked up into her burly chief’s grinning face as she pulled off her oxygen mask and helmet. “Sorry, Chief, I dinged her up again.”

“No sweat, Lieutenant. We’ll fix her. You okay?”

“Yep!” Ruby followed the chief down the ladder and was instantly surrounded by dozens of people. “How many?” Neptune asked. Ruby shrugged and held up just one finger. Everyone cheered anyway.

The crowd parted again as _Myrtenaster_ taxied in, canopy up and refueling probe out—Weiss’ subtle way of giving everyone the middle finger. They followed her to the revetment next to Ruby, who was glad to be alone for a moment. 

Then the air was split by the sound of jet engines. Ruby ducked involuntarily as _Gambol Shroud_ came over at a thousand feet, wings raked back, beating up the base in approved United States Marine Corps fashion. As she climbed away, Yang, not to be outdone, came over in the same fashion, but threw _Ember Celica_ into a victory roll. 

Ruby jumped in the air, her yells of triumph drowned out by the roar of the F-15’s engines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few technical notes: BUFF (Big Ugly Fat Fella, in the clean version) is the nickname for the B-52 (Stratofortress is the official name). Beepers are alarms that automatically go off after a pilot has ejected-in theory. Because they tend to go across all frequencies, pilots will sometimes switch them off to keep from jamming up the radio. Ruth's negative beeper could mean that either she didn't get out, or she simply switched her beeper off. Luckily for her, it was the latter.
> 
> Tobogganing and "towing" were used on several occasions by KC-135 and KA-3 crews during Vietnam. Michael Estocin (who was later posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor) was "towed" back to his carrier by a KA-3 while piloting a badly damaged A-4, in a manner very similar to what happens to Ruby here.


	52. And We Danced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party begins! Beacon celebrates the defeat of the White Fang and the GRIMM.
> 
> But Yang has a surprise coming, and it's not a pleasant one...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gives a full order of battle of what is at JRB Beacon at this point in the story, along with kills. Pretty sure my kill count is correct. The reason why Pyrrha's and Coco's kill counts are higher is that Pyrrha's Crete kills are counted, as well as whatever Coco shot down over Iraq. (It was mentioned waaay back in Chapter 4 or so that Coco, Pyrrha and Ruby were the only aces at Beacon when Vytal Flag started.

_Building 111713 (Officers' Club)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_4 May 2001_

  
  
The sun had set on Joint Base Beacon, but the party was just getting started at the officers’ club. The new aces were held aloft on the pilots’ shoulders and paraded around, with much beer being thrown on them. Yang screamed in delight and took a drag on a full bottle of champagne, then poured half over Weiss’ head, who screamed for other reasons. Across the club, Ren took a pull from his beer, unusually ebullient, Nora’s head scraping the ceiling as she rode on his shoulders and drank from two beers. Next to Ren was Jaune, carried by a laughing Pyrrha. Behind them was carried Cinder and Emerald; Cinder looked faintly disgusted by the entire affair, but didn’t turn down a beer, while Emerald drank and cheered with the rest of them. Bringing up the rear was Velvet and Fox, the latter with his leg in a cast but already halfway to inebriation, having refused painkillers in favor of getting stone drunk. They had spirited him, Coco, Velvet and Sky Lark out of the hospital, while Ozpin carefully looked the other way. Sky and Velvet were not hurt, but had been kept for observation; Coco’s arm was in a sling, but she was feeling no pain. Muslims were not supposed to drink, but Coco had observed that Allah had a special dispensation for fighter pilots, especially those who had brought back wrecked airplanes.

Goodwitch was in attendance, leaning against the bar, with a Coke in her hands, figuring that someone needed to stay sober. Ruby and Blake had taken one of the corner tables for Ruby Flight. Both were leaning back in their chairs, Ruby with her one beer for the night, Blake with a glass of bourbon. Ruby surveyed the crowd and felt old, although she was the youngest. Her eyes strayed to the Ace Board, hung up behind the bar:

RUBY FLIGHT KILLS

Ruby Rose (1st Lt, USAF) F-16A(ADF) Falcon 9

Blake Belladonna (1st Lt, USMC) F-14GS Tomcat 8.5

Yang Xiao Long (Capt, USAF) F-15SE Silent Eagle 6

Weiss Schnee (1st Lt., Luftwaffe) Typhoon 7

JUNIPER FLIGHT

Jaune Arc (1st Lt., AdA) Mirage 2000C 5.5

Pyrrha Nikos (Major, HAF) F-16C Falcon 21.5

Lie Ren (Capt., CUAF) J-10 Vigorous Dragon 7

Nora Valkyrie (1st Lt., USAF) A-10A Warthog 1.5

CARDINAL FLIGHT

Cardin Winchester (Capt., USAF) F-15C Eagle 3

Russel Thrush (1st Lt., USAF) F-16C Falcon 3

Dove Bronzewing (1st Lt., USAF) CF-18A Hornet 3

Sky Lark (1st Lt., RMAF) Hawk 200 0 

CREAMER FLIGHT

Cinder Fall (Capt., USAF) F-15C Eagle 7

Ruth Lionheart (F/O, RAF) Jaguar GR.1A 0.5

Mercury Black (1st Lt., USAF) F-16C Falcon 4 

Emerald Sustrai (Capt., EDA) Mirage F.1CE 5

COFFEE FLIGHT

Coco Adel (Capt., IqAF) Mirage F.1EQ 0

Yatsuhachi Daichi (1st Lt., JASDF) F-2A 3

Fox Alasdair/Velvet Scarlatina (Flight Lt./F/O, RAF) Tornado F.3 5

SUN FLIGHT

Sun Wukong (Capt., CUAF) FCK-1A Ching Kuo 5

Scarlet David (Lt., IDF/AF) Lavi 3

Sage Ayana (1st Lt., AMI) F-104S 0

Neptune Vasilias (Lt., USN) F/A-18C Hornet 1.5

Coco, Sky and Sage were the only ones without kills, but no one held it against them. All of them were just happy to be alive.

“How does it feel to be the second highest ranking pilot at Beacon?” Blake shouted at Ruby over the noise. 

“Feels great!” Ruby took a pull from the beer. It didn’t taste all that great, but it tasted better because it meant she was still alive. 

“They figure out what happened to _Crescent Rose?”_ Blake yelled.

Ruby reached into a pocket of her flight suit and dropped a piece of metal no bigger than her thumb onto the table, then leaned close to Blake so she wouldn’t have to yell too much. “Piece of the train,” she said loudly. “Chief picked it out of the fuselage.”

“Shit,” Blake breathed. Ruby was lucky it hadn’t done more than it did.

“Yeah, no fooling.”

Blake drank more of the bourbon. She felt like getting tight that night. Not passed-out drunk, just tight. She felt vindicated, having shot down Roman Torchwick, who was currently cooling his heels in the Beacon brig. _And no Adam,_ she thought, wondering why the Moonslice had not been in the fight. She also wondered where the White Fang had gone, but made a decision: tonight, she wouldn’t worry about it.

She was suddenly grabbed by Ruth Lionheart, who seized Blake by the cheeks and kissed her on the lips. Next she went over to Ruby and tried to do the same, but at the last minute Ruby dodged so the kiss landed on her cheek; the Faunus shrugged, slapped her back, and went on to the next victim. She hadn’t even bothered going to the hospital; uninjured, she was already very drunk and weaved dangerously towards Scarlet. Ruby blew out her breath: there was no way in hell she was going to allow her first kiss to be from a blitzed Ruth Lionheart.

Yang climbed off the shoulders of Yatsuhachi onto the bar. She had two beers under her belt and had a nice buzz going. She raised the champagne bottle to the crowd, who raised their drinks in return. “Here’s to all of us, you magnificent bastards!” The cheer was deafening. Yang took a big drink and threw the rest to a giggling Emerald.

Nora leapt onto the bar next to Yang. “Hey, you assholes!” she yelled. “I don’t know any tricks or nothing, so…” She grabbed the zipper on her flight suit and began pulling it down. The crowd went quiet and Goodwitch looked up, alarmed; this was how Nora had ended up naked the last time. She whisked the zipper to her navel, and Nora’s impressive assets bulged out of the flight suit—but were covered in her A-10 BOOP T-shirt. There was a noticeable _awww_ from the pilots, but then Nora threw her arm around Yang. “So I’m gonna sing!” She took another drink from both beers and began belting out a song about how everyone wished they had a gun like the A-10. Yang put her arms around her and joined in. When they were done, there were cheers, catcalls, hoots, and at least one call for Yang to show her tits. Yang unzipped her flight suit and flashed her yellow bra, then she and Nora started kicking their legs like a Rockettes dance number, quickly joined by Pyrrha and Neptune. Once they were finished, all three girls kissed Neptune; as the man who had brought down the last Nevermore, no one begrudged him.

Goodwitch signaled to the bartender for gin. It was going to be a very long night. As he brought it, the phone rang. He answered it, nodded, and tugged on Yang’s flight suit leg until she looked down. “Flightline called!” he yelled. “Your crew chief wants you!”

Yang cocked her head quizzically at that. If her crew chief wanted her, there was something wrong with _Ember Celica,_ and it was rather odd that it couldn’t wait until in the morning. It wasn’t like it was going to explode on the ground or something. She hopped down off the bar and left unnoticed. 

Joint Base Beacon had a small correctional facility—the brig to the Navy and Marines, the stockade to the Army and Air Force. It was mainly intended for less serious crimes, so it was not the most secure place to hold Roman Torchwick. 

Ironwood still made it a point to see him. Torchwick lay on his cot behind bars, with four armed guards in attendance. He looked bored, staring at the ceiling, now in military issue pajamas rather than his flight suit.

“Give us a minute,” he told the guards, who went out into the hallway and closed the door. “So you’re Roman Torchwick.”

“Nice to be famous,” Torchwick replied. 

“Infamous would be a better term,” Ironwood replied. “I’m told you have refused to cooperate.”

“You may find this hard to believe, General sir,” Torchwick smiled, looking at him for the first time, “but I’m not a fan of authority. It’s the whole pirate thing.”

“You might want to change your mind.” Ironwood leaned against the bars. “You’re going to prison, Torchwick. However, you’ve got a choice in this. I can get you a trial in front of civil authority. Most likely you’ll get life, but that’s better than the alternative…which is a military tribunal, with the authority to stand you on a wall and shoot you.”

“What about my rights, General?” Torchwick acted nonchalant, but Ironwood saw him pale a little. 

“What about them, Torchwick? You’re a pirate. Some of our oldest laws in this nation deal with piracy, and pretty much all of them authorize me to hang you—literally. Under the Aerial Pirate Prevention Act of 1989, the penalty is death by firing squad.” 

“I’m surprised I even get a trial.”

“You still have the right to that,” Ironwood answered. “Even a tribunal will provide you a defense lawyer. But it’s going to take the best lawyer since Daniel Webster to get you to beat about thirty counts of air piracy. Not to mention terrorism. Unless, of course, you want to cut a deal.”

“What’s on the table?” Torchwick propped himself up on an elbow.

“Tell me who’s behind all this.”

Torchwick grinned. “Me.”

Ironwood chuckled. “Try again. You don’t have the resources for this.”

“No,” Torchwick sighed, “not anymore.”

“Sienna Khan?”

Torchwick gave it some thought. “Yes.” 

“Who else?”

“Just her.” 

Ironwood got back to his feet. “Just her?”

“Well, her and her White Fang buddies—if they’re still alive.”

“Is that all?” Ironwood asked.

“That’s it,” Torchwick said. He stood up. “Do I get my phone call now?”

“Who are you going to call?”

“Ghostbusters.” Torchwick couldn’t resist. 

Ironwood actually laughed at that. “Good one.” His smile abruptly disappeared. “You know more than you’re saying, Torchwick. I don’t know why you’re not spilling your guts, since the White Fang hung you out to dry, but that’s up to you.” The general idly inspected his fingernails. “There’s one other option I have. I’ve got some friends in the CIA. I could hand you over to them. They won’t be as friendly. Roman Torchwick could…disappear. Who would mourn you?”

Torchwick lay down on his bed. “You’d break the law? I’m still an American citizen.”

“You’d be surprised what I would do to win, Torchwick.” Ironwood banged a fist on the bars, making the air pirate jump. “Think it over. You won’t be transferred to Leavenworth for awhile.”

“Hey, General.” Torchwick’s voice stopped Ironwood halfway through the door. “Have you considered that I’m more afraid of her than you?”

Ironwood knew who he was talking about. “She can’t get to you here, Torchwick. I can. Good night.”

Yang walked down the flightline. She couldn’t resist looking around at all the aircraft. The pilots were partying, but for the ground crews, it was the first of a few sleepless nights. Though the GRIMM were almost certainly destroyed, missiles and guns were being loaded just in case more arrived. Aircraft with minor issues were being looked at—Yang passed _Crescent Rose,_ and she saw Ruby’s crew chief and his crew already repairing the small hole the fragment had made. She returned the chief’s wave. She whistled slowly as she passed Nora’s _Magnhild._ The entire front end of the A-10 looked like it had gone through a blender, and the canopy was a shattered mess. One engine cover was lying on the tarmac, peeled back as if by a can opener, and one tail was little more than a mass of holes. Still, the tough Warthog had done what it was designed to do, and brought Nora home. Three revetments were empty—Sky Lark’s Hawk was at the bottom of the Mississippi, and Ruth Lionheart’s Jaguar and Fox and Velvet’s Tornado were blackened wreckage in the forest of southern Minnesota. 

Though she didn’t mind the walk, Yang was still glad to reach the end of the dispersal area, where _Ember Celica_ sat, across the taxiway from _Gambol Shroud._ Yang’s crew chief, who was short and stocky where Ruby’s was big and heavy, leaned against the F-15. In his hand, he held a large spanner wrench. Since _Ember Celica_ had not taken any hits, the chief was the only one by the aircraft; the others were helping Nora’s crew.

“Hey, Sarge,” Yang greeted him. “What’s up?”

“I’m not sure,” the crew chief replied. He motioned at the knoll overlooking the dispersal, where Blake had poured her heart out to Yang— _was that just the day before yesterday?_ Yang wondered. “Someone came down the line about twenty minutes ago, looking for you. Never seen her before in my life, but she’s wearing a flight suit.”

“Visiting pilot?”

“Beats me, ma’am. There aren’t any aircraft in at the transient tarmac. The B-52s went back to O’Hare, and the tankers are down in Milwaukee.” He looked worried. “Something isn’t right about her, Captain. I’ve never seen the helmet that she has with her, and I’ve been in the Air Force for damn near twenty years.”

“Did she look like she was going to whip my ass?” It occurred to Yang that it could be Neo Politan, who she was sure had damn near killed her today, but she didn’t think Neo would be crazy enough to sneak into a heavily-guarded military base just to chat.

“Actually, no, Captain, but…” The sergeant hesitated. “She’s up there, ma’am. Maybe you better go see for yourself. But before you do…” He held out the spanner wrench, and held up a radio. “I can call the air cops, too, if you like.”

“That’s okay.” Yang started towards the hill, then accepted the wrench. She continued up the hill, glad that her chief was watching. She wished she’d brought a gun. 

The figure was easy to see. She was a little shorter than Yang, dressed in what was obviously a well-tailored, custom flight suit of black and red, but it was indeed the helmet that was the most arresting. It didn’t look like a helmet so much as it looked like the skull of some predator: white with red streaks, and instead of a visor, four slits that looked like four eyes. “Who the fuck are you?” Yang asked.

The figure’s laugh was muffled by the helmet. “Oh, you’re mine. If there was any doubt, you’re mine.” She reached up and took off the helmet, and Yang nearly fell in surprise. The hair was black, the eyes were a reddish-brown, but the features that stared back were her own. “You’ve been looking for me for awhile, Yang. I’m your mother—Raven Branwen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems to be a week of Yang and Raven meeting up in my stories.
> 
> The song Nora and Yang are mentioned as singing is real! It's by the fighter pilot band Dos Gringos-"I Wish I Had a Gun Like the A-10." You can find it (and their other songs) on YouTube. Their songs are fighter pilot songs, which mean they are vulgar and ribald. Yang being asked to show her breasts is also pretty accurate for a fighter pilot gathering-I was at one in Las Vegas where a woman came in to complain about the noise, and got exactly that. Fighter jocks aren't PC, never have been, and never will be...and I imagine the female fighter pilot community is no different.
> 
> Finally, the damage to Nora's A-10? Based on a combination of several true stories. My uncle served in Battle Damage Repair during Desert Storm, and he worked on an A-10 that came home with about that damage. Also worth looking up is the story of Kim "Killer Chick" Campbell, who brought home an A-10 in 2003 that was about in the same shape as Magnhild.


	53. When Doves Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Pyrrha and Jaune share a moment, Yang confronts Raven. The first meeting between mother and daughter is not going to go well.

_Building 111713 (Officers’ Club)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_4 May 2001_

Pyrrha Nikos walked out of the bar, up the stairs, and into the fresh, crisp air. The night air felt good after the increased fetidness of the bar, where sweat, beer and cigarette smoke were starting to form a disgusting miasma. She’d also had a bit more to drink than she had intended. Pyrrha wasn’t drunk, but she wasn’t feeling much pain, either. 

“Pyrrha?” She turned at the sound of Jaune’s voice. He came out of the club as well. Jaune had drank five beers—one for each of his kills—but didn’t seem to be showing much effects. “You okay?”

“Yes, Jaune. Thanks for asking. Just heading back to my room…I’m quite tired, I’m afraid. Getting too old to drink all night and fly all day.” The latter was a lie; Pyrrha was not even thirty yet.

He got closer. “Just checking. Since, you know…last time.”

Pyrrha smiled. “That was very sweet of you, but this is different. I actually feel…quite good.” At his look of concern, she laughed softly. “I’m not drunk, Jaune. Just…happy.” She wasn’t sure why she felt happy—more sentient beings had fallen under her guns today—but there was something about the camaraderie in the club. Dancing on the bar with Yang and Nora, chugging a beer with a happy Velvet, kissing Neptune on the cheek, getting kissed by Ruth—it was something she hadn’t experienced since before Crete, and was sorely missed.

“I’m glad.” Jaune paused, summoned his courage, and went for it. “Walk you home?”

“That sounds lovely.” He put out his arm, and she took it. They laughed and separated a block later—it was hard to coordinate their walking—but they still were close to each other. Neither said much on the way; they just enjoyed the night air and each other’s company. Neither mentioned the battle. 

Too soon, Jaune thought, they reached the door to the female officers’ quarters. Jaune was tempted to ask her for a nightcap, which might lead to something else, but that seemed too forward, too much like he was only being kind because he wanted to sleep with her. Pyrrha, for her part, was also wondering if she should ask him to her room. There was an even chance that Nora would either end up in Ren’s room tonight, or passed out in the bar again, and in any case, she would more than understand if there was the proverbial sock on the door. Yet Pyrrha was also afraid of seeming too forward, and she did not want to get involved with another fighter pilot. Those relationships rarely ended well.

“Well…good night,” Jaune said, scratching the back of his head.

“Good night,” Pyrrha replied, looking at her boots. Then she decided. She reached up, grabbed Jaune by the cheeks, and kissed him. Not on the cheeks, but squarely on the lips. She let go quickly, smiled a gentle smile that was his alone, and went into the FOQ before she was tempted beyond reason to do anything else.

Jaune stood there for a moment in shock. Then he grinned to himself, turned, and began walking briskly back to the club, whistling the Marseillaise.

Yang got back her balance. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Raven put a hand on her chest in mock shock. “Yang Xiao Long! Is that any way to talk to your mother?”

“I don’t know,” Yang growled, “since I haven’t seen you since I was a baby. You picked a weird time to start claiming me.”

“It’s also a hell of a way to talk to someone who saved your ass today,” Raven snapped.

Yang once more felt like the world was about to roll out from under her. “What? _You?_ In that…whatever the hell it was?”

Her mother smiled and nodded. “It’s called a Night Raven. Well, we call it that—the Air Force was going to call it a Foxfire or something. Experimental aircraft, meant to be a high-altitude, high-speed interceptor designed to destroy Nevermore in a single pass. Made in America with experimental Russian tech recovered after the Third World War. So stealthy radars won’t even pick it up. Equipped with DUST. But hey, I don’t want to brag or anything.” Her smile broadened. “We stole it. I understand the Air Force was quite upset. It took them years to replicate it in a B-1.”

“’We’?”

“The Branwen Tribe,” Raven answered. “Your Uncle Qrow never told you? Typical.” Raven sat down, setting her helmet next to her, and crossed her legs. 

“How did you even know where I was?”

“I was actually coming to see you. I’ve got the Night Raven stashed not too far away. I heard you were looking for me through the grapevine, and decided that you were right; it was high time we met again. Then I picked up the radio traffic, heard your name mentioned, and headed in your direction, just in case. You know everyone monitors Guard frequency.” Raven shrugged. “You could at least say thank you.”

“Thank you,” Yang replied, though there was no affection in it. 

“Sit down, sit down.” Raven patted the ground next to her. “Let me look at you. I’ve seen pictures, but I admit you’re even more beautiful in person. You got my figure and my face, and Tai’s hair.” She sighed wistfully. “At least Taiyang and I made a beautiful baby.”

“Did you ever love him?”

Raven’s affable demeanor disappeared. “I’m not here to talk about your father.”

“Or how you left him with a baby? Alone?”

Her lips peeled back in a snarl. “Oh, he wasn’t alone, Yang. He had Summer Rose. Tai didn’t exactly let the grass grow under his feet. I wasn’t gone two years before he’d already knocked Summer up.” Raven closed her eyes and took a breath. “Not that I blame him, I suppose. Short Stack was a catch.”

“She was there and you weren’t.”

Raven shrugged again. “All right. I was hoping for something different than this, but all right.” She got to her feet. “I didn’t just come here to see you, and I certainly didn’t come here to argue about something that happened twenty years ago. Taiyang and I had our time in the sun together, but those days are over—“

“Why did you leave him?” Yang demanded. Her fingers tightened on the wrench. “Tell me, or I swear to God I will stave in your fucking _skull!”_

Raven blinked at the venom in her daughter’s voice. “I see you inherited the Branwen temper, too. All right. I’ll tell you, say my piece, and then I’m gone.”

“Unless I have the air cops throw your ass in jail.”

Raven laughed humorlessly. “Yang, I got onto this base without anyone knowing. I walked down the flightline and people barely looked. The Branwen Tribe exists by stealing, looting, and surviving any way we can. I attended Vytal Flag here four years running, back when Summer, Tai, Qrow and I were in Strike Flight. I know more ways in and out of this base than Ozpin does, and that includes what’s under it.”

“I’m not hearing you talking about why you left Dad yet.” Yang took a step forward and raised the wrench a bit higher.

“Hmm. I’m beginning to think you’d do it.” When Yang took another step, Raven put up a hand. “I left your father because I had to. Not because I didn’t love you, Yang. I did. I still do. And I loved Tai. But the tribe was more important.”

“You threw away your career, your marriage— _me—_ for the fucking _tribe?”_ Yang shouted.

“I’d prefer the entirety of Joint Base Beacon not hear our family spat, Yang.” Raven got closer and dropped her voice. “Yes. I did. In case you haven’t figured it out yet, Darwin was right. Only the strong survive in this world, Yang. And the tribe needed strength. They gave me and my brother everything. Was I supposed to just turn my back on them?”

“Nice words,” Yang said. “But was that the real reason—Raven?”

Raven seemed taken aback at Yang’s use of her name, and didn’t answer at first. “I’ve had enough of this. I’ll come to the point.” She waved a hand at the flightline. “What happened today was nothing. It was probably an accident. Your flight—I know it’s yours, even if your half-sister leads it—probably tripped it early. But the White Fang aren’t destroyed, Yang, and even if they are, there’s more going on than you realize. They will try again, and this time, I doubt you’ll even see them coming. Ozpin has quite a few blind spots, and he won’t acknowledge them. I know; I used to work for him.” Raven shook her head. “There is a storm coming, Yang. This was just the leading edge of it. And I’m not going to be around to save you next time.”

Yang stared at her mother. “So what should I do?”

“You should run. Get transferred out of here, back to Signal. You and Ruby—I owe Summer that much. We were good friends, once. Then, when you can, fly out to California and see me.”

“There’s nothing left of California.”

Raven gave another snort of a laugh. “That’s what the government tells you. They’re lying, as usual.” She reached out and put a hand on Yang’s shoulder. “We control the California coast. Fly out there. Make up an excuse. You’ll have a place in my tribe. For that matter, so will Ruby. I doubt she’ll accept it, because she’s got Summer’s martyr complex, but I’d welcome her too. Being an air pirate isn’t easy, but it beats being dead. Which is what you’ll be if you stay here.”

“So we should run, huh?” Yang was motionless for a moment, then slapped her mother’s hand away. “No, Raven. That’s what you did.”

Raven’s temper flared, and she stabbed a finger into Yang’s chest. “Don’t talk to me like that. I’m still your mother.”

Yang met Raven’s gaze without flinching. “No. Summer Rose was my mother.” Then she turned and began walking down the hill, tapping the wrench against her thigh. 

“I won’t save you again, Yang!”

Yang thought she detected tears in Raven’s voice, but she didn’t care. “So what else is new?” she said over her shoulder. 

Yang returned to the club. Ruby Flight was sitting at their table. Weiss and Blake were well on their way to being pleasantly inebriated, and Ruby—having finished her one beer—was now just drinking soda. Yang stopped by the bar, got a beer, and took the remaining seat.

“Hey, Yang!” Ruby greeted her. “Where’d you go? You’ve been gone awhile. You missed Ruth Lionheart proposing to Scarlet David!” Yang said nothing, only stared at the beer. “Which is funny, because Scarlet doesn’t like girls, and…” Her sister still said nothing, just reached forward, popped the top off the beer, and took a drink. “Yang?”

Blake reached out and took Yang’s hand. “Yang, what’s wrong?” Weiss’ eyes were filled with concern as well. 

Yang took another drink, then her lips began to tremble. She set the beer down, then put her head down and started to cry, her whole body shaking. She pounded at the table with a fist, unable to stop. No one noticed in the bar, but Ruby Flight stood as one, came around the table, and hugged Yang as she continued to cry. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you reading "Sunshine and Summertime," some of the dialogue in this chapter might seem similar (or identical). The reason is simple: I wrote this chapter about four months ago, and I think I forgot I'd had Yang say some of the same things. However, it's a much different Raven in both stories: Raven in S&S is penitent and is trying to reconnect with an estranged daughter, whereas Raven here is closer to her canon counterpart. 
> 
> The Night Raven name was taken from the old GI Joe toy, but since it was also stolen from the Firefox, I'm not too worried about it.


	54. Animal Instinct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where did the White Fang go after the failed attack on La Crosse? Somewhere you might not expect. Ozpin and Ironwood find out that the US government is withdrawing most of the defenses around the Mississippi River, but Ozpin doesn't think Salem has finished...only just begun.

_Covert Base Hector_

_North Dakota Dead Zone, United States of Canada_

_4 May 2001_

“My name is Matthew Beck,” the security policeman said, spitting blood. “Technical Sergeant, United States Air Force. My service number is 159-17-1802. My birthdate is 22 June 1971.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” Sienna Khan warned. She held a pistol to the back of the kneeling sergeant’s head. “I’ve already asked this question once, Sergeant. I want the security codes for this base.” 

“He’s not going to tell you,” Ilia Amitola said. She stood behind Sienna, her arm in a sling. She had ejected from her burning F-5 without injury, but hit a tree branch on the ground. The arm was sprained rather than broken. “They have a Code of Conduct. They’re not allowed to tell us.”

Arthur Watts leaned against one of the helicopters. “We don’t need him to tell us,” Watts told Sienna tiredly. “I can break their codes. Give me some time.”

“We might not have time!” Sienna shouted. “If the Air Force finds out we’re here, we’re dead!”

Adam Taurus sighed. He was standing next to the Moonslice in the huge hangar at Hector; next to his aircraft was the blood red F-22. Neo Politan sat against the Raptor’s nose gear, despondent, unresponsive after learning Torchwick had been captured. Watts had heard it during the trip over on military radio traffic, and it was confirmed by internet news sources by the time the White Fang had taken Hector.

It had not been easy. After the debacle at Mountain Glenn, there were only about 130 White Fang left, and that included Watts, Adam, and Sienna. They had crowded onboard six converted Sea King helicopters, having burned everything in Mountain Glenn they couldn’t take with them, and escaped the underground base in the confusion of the GRIMM attack. The last helicopter had been taking off when Ilia ran onto the former South St. Paul airport, having managed to evade back from where she had been shot down. They had linked up with Moonslice and Neo’s Raptor and flown into the approaching darkness.

Hector was never expecting an attack. Watts had the correct passwords, and before the defenders of the covert base knew it, White Fang troops were pouring out of the helicopters, angry and better-armed. Their frantic calls for help went unheard—once more, Watts had jammed them, this time using an electronic countermeasures pod jury-rigged under one of the helicopters. 

Still, the USAF personnel had put up a fight; Watts, who had told the White Fang that the base only had a single .50 caliber sniper rifle, was as surprised as anyone else when a Javelin had blown one of the helicopters apart. The sniper in the tower had turned six White Fang into mist before Sienna herself killed the sniper with a RPG. When the last pocket of resistance had finally surrendered in the kitchen, 35 of the 50 USAF personnel at Hector were dead, but they had taken nearly fifty White Fang with them.

And since then, Sienna had been killing prisoners. Watts rolled his eyes as she shot Sergeant Beck in the back of the head. “This is ridiculous,” he told Amitola. He could not have cared less for the killing, but Sienna was wasting what could be valuable hostages.

There was only one prisoner left, a Faunus. Sienna leveled the pistol at the back of her head. “Give me the security codes—“

“High Leader, that’s enough.” Both Sienna and the Faunus looked up in surprise as Adam pushed off the Moonslice and walked forward. With a smile, he waved Sienna off. Adam knelt in front of the Faunus. “Do you know who I am?”

“My name is Francheska Malikov,” the Faunus said, staring straight ahead, looking past him. “Staff Sergeant, United States Air Force, serial number—“

Adam chuckled. “Sergeant, your Code of Conduct prevents you from answering questions that compromise your honor as a member of the United States Air Force. But surely you can tell me if you know me.”

Malikov stared back defiantly, then spoke quietly. “You’re Adam Taurus. She’s Sienna Khan. All Faunus know you two.”

“Good. Stand up, Sergeant; it’s undignified.” She got to her feet, though she kept her hands on her head. “Now then. We are Faunus, right?” Adam said. He motioned around. “All of us—well, almost all of us—are Faunus. You know what the White Fang was founded for. You know what we’re about.”

“I do,” Malikov told her. “You’re terrorists.”

Adam laughed. “No, Sergeant. We’re freedom fighters. We’re trying to free the Faunus, not kill them.”

“You’re scum.”

Sienna snarled and brought up the pistol, but Adam once more waved her away. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Francheska. But maybe you’ll change your mind after awhile with us. You’ll see that we’re _not_ what you think you are.”

“Really? How do you explain that?” Malikov pointed to the bodies of the men and women Sienna had shot. 

“They’re humans, Francheska.” Adam shrugged, as if Malikov had been asking about why an anthill had been kicked.

“They were my friends!” she shouted.

Ilia stepped forward. “Don’t kill her. We can use her as a hostage.”

“For who?” Sienna asked. “Everyone else is dead. Did you see anyone bail out?”

“Torchwick.”

Sienna almost said that Torchwick could go hang, but with Neo there it would be inadvisable. In fact, the small woman was standing now, walking towards them. “They’re not going to trade a nobody sergeant Faunus for the most wanted air pirate in the Remnant.”

“She could still be valuable.”

“I agree,” Adam said. “Humans are one thing, High Leader. A Faunus is one of us.” He turned back to Malikov. “Were you the only Faunus on base, Francheska?”

Malikov put her face in her hands. “Please,” she begged. She stepped closer to Adam. “Please. No more.”

Adam went to put a hand on her shoulder, but without warning, Malikov kicked outwards, aiming squarely for Adam’s crotch. He turned to the side, and avoided a crippling hit, but the Faunus girl still struck. He sucked in his breath in pain and doubled over. 

The hangar froze for a moment, as Malikov took a step back, hands raised in defiance. Watts let out a guffaw of laughter, followed by Sienna, then Ilia, then Adam himself. He straightened up, a bit of pain on his face. “Oh, that was good!” he grinned. “That was very good. I like you, Francheska. I think we’ll keep you around—“

Everyone jumped as a gunshot rang out. Malikov’s head snapped backwards, and blood sprayed across the floor and Sienna’s boots. The Faunus’ body hit the floor as the gunshot continued to echo around the hangar. Adam looked around. Neo stood, arm leveled, a snubnosed .38 in her hand, her face twisted in hate. “They have Roman,” she snapped. “Fuck them _all.”_ Then she holstered the .38 in her survival vest and walked back to the F-22, where she sat back down and returned to staring into space.

“Apparently Miss Politan doesn’t believe in the brotherhood of Faunus,” Watts commented. 

“A waste,” Adam sighed. He motioned towards some of the nearby White Fang, their jerkins dirty and bloody, their eyes bright with exhaustion. “Take the bodies away and bury them somewhere that won’t be easily seen. We have to get everything undercover before the next satellite pass, or the next USAF aircraft arrives.” He pointed to a burly White Fang with a bloody bandage around his head. “Berk, do an inventory. Find out what’s left. Food, weapons, uniforms, the lot.” 

“Yes, sir.” No one seemed to mind that Adam, not Sienna, was suddenly in charge.

“Watts, crack those codes. We can bet that the Air Force checks in with Hector on a regular basis, and we’d better figure out what code words they use.” He crooked a finger at Ilia. “Amitola, come with me.” Ilia's facial color noticeably took on a lighter hue.

They walked out of the hangar into the hallway connecting it to the control tower. He stopped her by putting a hand out, then forcing her back to a wall. She recognized the tactic: Adam had used it on Blake on occasion. “Why did you sabotage the Moonslice?” he asked, without preamble.

“I-I didn’t—“

Adam shook his head slowly. “Ilia, Ilia, Ilia. Don’t lie to me. My crew chief confirmed it. So have others. You were the only one near it, ‘preflighting’ it.” He thumbed open the katana. “You know how I value the truth, Ilia.”

Ilia could not meet his eyes. “Yes, Adam. I did sabotage it. I had to. You had no chance in that dogfight. Not even you.”

“No. That’s not the real reason.” He leaned closer to her, his mask an inch from her forehead. “What _is_ the real reason, Ilia?”

Ilia hesitated, then her eyes became misty. “It was for Blake.”

“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. You always did have more than a little affection for Miss Belladonna.” He touched her cheek; Ilia shrank away from it. “Were you trying to get me killed, so you could have Blake all to yourself?”

“N-no,” Ilia protested. “I-I don’t want you killing each other, Adam. I don’t want you killing Blake. She’s my friend.”

The fingers ran down her cheek. “She deserted our cause, Ilia. Every military shoots deserters. And traitors.”

“Please…” A tear gathered in the corner of her eye, and he brushed it away.

“Ilia, don’t worry,” Adam said gently. “I don’t want to kill Blake. I never have. I love her too, you see. I don’t want Blake dead. Only punished, so she realizes the error of her ways. And she will, Ilia. She’ll come back to us. Both of us.” He kissed her forehead. “I forgive you, Ilia. You were just trying to protect our friend, and that’s commendable. But don’t do it again. Ever. Leave Blake to me, all right?” He drew himself back to his full height, and pulled his arms down. “Let’s get back to work, and put this behind us. No more will be said.”

“Yes, sir.” Ilia followed Adam back into the hangar.

_Commanding Officer’s Office, Joint Base Beacon_

_Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_4 May 2001_

“Captain Ozpin, you are to be commended for your rapid reaction to the attack on the Mississippi River Barrier.”

Ozpin stood behind his chair, leaning on his cane. There was no reason to be standing, but he felt the need to. The voice came from the speaker on his phone. “Thank you, Mr. Secretary.”

“And you as well, General Ironwood.”

Ironwood, who was sitting across from Ozpin’s desk resting his head on folded hands, nodded, although Secretary of Defense Jason Terasoma could not see him. “We did our duty, Mr. Secretary. If you want to thank someone, thank our brave pilots. We’ll be sending in commendations within the next week.”

“Of course, General. I’ll make sure those will be expedited.”

“Mr. Secretary, if there’s a way you could also coordinate with the State Department regarding Pyrrha Nikos’ immigration request…” Ozpin added.

“I’ll do what I can,” Terasoma replied. “State gets nervous when we make requests. But I’ll do everything I can.” There was a pause; both men heard paper being shuffled. “So then Vytal Flag will go as scheduled?”

“Yes,” Ozpin replied. “But once more, I must protest it being broadcast.”

“Nothing secret will be recorded, Captain,” Terasoma reassured him.

“I’m aware of that, Mr. Secretary. I just don’t feel comfortable with the trainees here having to worry about what looks good for the cameras rather than doing their job.”

“Emphasis to them that it’s not necessary, Captain. We’re not following them into their barracks. This isn’t reality TV. We just want to show the people of the world that their militaries stand ready to defend them against the threat of GRIMM.”

“They should already know that,” Ozpin snapped, forgetting for a moment who he was talking to. “This isn’t the Olympics, Mr. Secretary—“

“Captain.” Terasoma’s voice hardened. “Vytal Flag is being recorded. That comes from the top. President Shawcross wants it. Vice-President Dunkelman wants it. The EU Council and Jacques Schnee want it. I can keep going, Captain. This is happening. End of discussion.”

“Yes, sir.” Ironwood could see Ozpin was seething, but this was his duty as well.

“No more of that, Captain Ozpin. I don’t like chewing out someone, especially someone that’s due for promotion. Overdue, actually.”

“Not necessary, Mr. Secretary.” Ozpin knew what Terasoma was referring to. A promotion to Rear Admiral would be a graveyard promotion, after which Ozpin would be eased out of the Navy altogether, put out to pasture. He had been able to duck promotion so far, relying on his war record and his ability to game the system, but the hangman would eventually find him. 

“We’ll talk about it after Vytal Flag has concluded,” Terasoma was saying. More shuffling of paper. “General Ironwood, though Captain Ozpin retains command of JRB Beacon and Vytal Flag, we would like you to remain in temporary command of the Vale Air Defense Region until the exercise ends.”

“Very well, Mr. Secretary.”

“And afterwards, you’ll be pleased to know that the EU has accepted your promotion to SACEUR.”

Ironwood’s head came up, shock on his face. He hadn’t expected that. Ironwood had made some enemies, highly placed enemies, in the European Union, and though he was on the short list for promotion to the highest military command in Europe—Supreme Allied Commander Europe, or SACEUR—he figured that those enemies would block him from command. SACEUR would cap his own career, although he would be one of the youngest men to ever hold the job. “Th..thank you, Mr. Secretary.”

“Let’s see, there was just one last thing here…oh yes. As both you gentlemen are aware, Vytal Flag is a rather expensive undertaking, and the deployment of the 1st Armored Division to Wisconsin, while necessary at the time, has cut into our emergency funds for the military budget. Therefore, it is my decision, and the Joint Chiefs, that all but one brigade be withdrawn back to Texas. General Calavera will remain in command, under you, General Ironwood. We’ll also be redeploying the B-52s back to Fairford and Barksdale.”

Ozpin closed his eyes. “Mr. Secretary, I hate to sound like a broken record, but once more I have to protest.”

Terasoma sounded surprised. “Captain, weren’t you against the deployment in the first place?”

“I was, but that was when we were under the impression that the GRIMM threat was at manageable level—“

Terasoma laughed. “Didn’t your forces just wipe out the largest GRIMM attack on the Barrier in ten years? Didn’t they just reduce the White Fang and the Torchwick Gang to a footnote in history? The emergency’s over, Captain. I wanted to withdraw everything from Wisconsin, but President Shawcross requested that we keep at least one brigade on station.”

_Don’t,_ Ironwood mouthed to Ozpin. Ozpin was about to remind Terasoma that it had been the government that had insisted on moving the entire division to Wisconsin in the first place. Of course, the accident of the attack—and Ozpin was convinced that it _had_ been an accident—made them look smart in doing so. Ozpin shook his head in frustration, but answered, “Very well, sir.” 

“Good. I know you’re not enthusiastic about it, Captain, but your responsibility is Beacon and Vytal Flag. Leave the rest to Ironwood there and us.” Another pause. “I think that will be all, gentlemen. I’m looking forward to seeing what this year’s exercise will deliver. We’ll put on a good show for the taxpayers. Good day, gentlemen.” The line clicked off.

“Say what you want to, Ozpin,” Ironwood smiled.

“No thank you. The level of my cursing would melt the paint off these walls.” He settled for slamming a fist on the back of his chair. “James, they’re just reacting. All they’ve been doing is running around like the proverbial headless chicken, and complimenting themselves when it somehow goes right. First we’re told the Torchwick Gang wasn’t a threat, and then, after our pilots have done the heavy lifting and risked their lives, they send in Delta Force to Cleveland. We’re told that the GRIMM threat was low by our intelligence sources, and the government panics and sends an entire division up here because of a relatively small attack on the Barrier last month. Now, when the GRIMM threat turns out to be much higher, and barely we stop it largely with the forces that were already here at Beacon, they decide everything’s fine and pull everything back.”

“You don’t think she’s done.” Ironwood made it a statement, not a question.

“Are you referring to Salem or Sienna Khan, James?” Ozpin asked.

“Both.”

“Sienna has gone to ground again. I doubt we’ll find anything in Mountain Glenn, even when Delta goes in to check out the place. He’s right that the Torchwick Gang is largely gone, but I doubt we’ve heard the last of the White Fang. Sienna’s message still resonates with many Faunus, and I suspect she’ll replace her losses in men quickly. And if Captain Long’s and Captain Belladonna’s reports are accurate, she might be able to replace her materiel losses quickly as well.” Ozpin moved around to his chair and sat down heavily. “I don’t think Salem planned this attack. I think our assessment is correct. Ruby Flight tripped it early. It was too uncoordinated.”

“She’s not perfect, Ozpin. As well you know.”

Ozpin nodded tiredly. “I do. But she’s also not stupid. I don’t think this was the main attack. Something worse is coming.”

“That’s what Torchwick said. And strangely enough, I believe him.” Ironwood got to his feet. “I need to meet with Calavera. Is Goodwitch still handling the investigation into the computer break-in?”

“She’ll have to get back to it, but yes. So far, nothing.”

“Let me know.”

“Of course, James.” Ozpin got to his feet and extended his hand. “Let me congratulate you, at least. SACEUR is quite something. You’re following in the steps of some great men—Eisenhower, Patton IV, Abrams…”

The General took the hand. “Sure. Unless we fuck up something with Vytal Flag.” Ironwood chuckled. “Still, worth it just to watch Jacques Schnee gnash his teeth. Winter’s heading back to Germany later today to visit her family, see if there’s anything to that White Fang business. I’m sure she’ll throw that at him.” He rolled his eyes. “How that bastard became the most powerful man in Europe, I’ll never know.”

“Money and lots of it.” Ozpin sat back down. “All right, James. Dinner, later?”

“Sounds good. I’ll buy.” They shared a laugh at that. Ironwood threw Ozpin a half-assed salute, and walked out the door, closing it behind him.

Ozpin turned in his chair, and spent some time staring at the window on the flightline. He watched _Crescent Rose_ being towed to a new hardstand. “Silver eyes,” he murmured. Then he turned back to his desk, pulled out the worn picture of the shyly smiling blonde woman, and rubbed a finger over it. “Salem,” he whispered, “what are you thinking?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ends the first "season" of "On RWBY Wings." Question for all of my readers here: on FF.net, I started a brand new story rather than just adding chapters to this one. What do you think? Keep adding chapters or start a whole new story?
> 
> Either way, "On RWBY Wings" is far from done! We're just getting started.


	55. Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After fighting off the biggest GRIMM attack on the Mississippi River Barrier in over a decade, at the same time fending off a joint Torchwick-White Fang attack, Ruby Flight doesn't get much of a chance to relax: Vytal Flag, now billed as a public relations exercise, has resumed, and they will be in the thick of it. But there are still enemies out there—both without and within—and Ruby Flight's lives are about to change forever…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So on FF.net, this is the beginning of an entirely new "season," but, on the advice of my readers, I'm going to just keep going with this story as it sits...even if it ends up being 150 chapters long!

_Above Lake Michigan_

_Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_8 May 2001_

“We screwed this up nicely,” Captain Blake Belladonna growled to herself under her oxygen mask, to no one in particular. Despite the fact that she was at the controls of a Grumman F-14 Tomcat, hers was unique in that it was a single-seat version. The _Gambol Shroud_ was unique in many ways. 

Right now, its uniqueness wasn’t very apparent. Though the F-14 was in the twilight of its long career as a fleet defense interceptor, Blake was currently being outperformed by an aircraft that was basically a relic, a museum piece. Someone had forgotten to tell Lieutenant Reese Chloris of the Lebanese Republic Air Force that, because her Hawker Hunter was giving Blake fits. It didn’t help that the rules of the exercise gave away the Tomcat’s biggest advantage, its long reach—it was visual range only weapons, AIM-9 Sidewinder heatseeking missiles and internal guns. Old though it might be, the Hunter was equipped with both, and Chloris was getting everything out of the old aircraft. Making matters worse was that Blake had foolishly allowed herself to get pulled out of the mutual support of her wingmate.

Blake stole a glance behind the F-14’s twin tails and cursed softly as the Hunter settled into the six o’clock high position. “Reese, Fox Two!” Chloris called out, but she was a tad fast. Blake rolled hard into a split-S, breaking the lock and dodging the missile—or would have, were an actual missile in the air. This combat was entirely simulated, a computer back at Joint Base Beacon cataloging the shots and feeding information to Range Control, who would determine if a shot hit, making the target a “mort,” simulated dead. Chloris’ shot was outside of parameters, which meant that, if the combat had been real, it would’ve been a clean miss.

Blake pulled out at six thousand feet above Lake Michigan, a thousand feet above the “hard deck,” an arbitrary safety margin to keep enthusiastic fighter pilots from accidentally diving into the lake. She caught movement out of the corner of her eye, looked up and saw the Hunter diving on her from above. Chloris wasn’t giving up: she had rolled the fighter downwards and was trying to catch Blake at the bottom of her split-S, where the Tomcat would be out of energy and out of airspace.

Except Blake was a step ahead of her opponent. She firewalled the throttles, felt like someone shoved her back into her ejection seat, and pulled the stick into her lap. _Gambol Shroud_ converted the energy of the dive into airspeed, and the F-14 rocketed upwards, ruining Chloris’ gun pass. Straining against the pull of gravity, Blake looked behind her again, obeying the dictum drilled into naval aviators from the first day of school— _lose sight, lose the fight—_ and saw Chloris climbing as well. Blake smiled beneath the mask. Despite being half the size and weight of the Tomcat, the Hunter could not climb with it; its single Avon engine was just not up to the task. _Now she’ll break off, and I’ll drop in on her,_ Blake thought.

To her surprise, the Hunter kept doggedly climbing, and to Blake’s horror, she saw the fighter start to flutter, then it twisted and fell out of the sky in a stall. It whirled once, and Blake’s finger hovered over the radio button, to make the call that Chloris was out of control, which would bring the exercise to an immediate halt. To her relief, the Hunter’s nose came down and the aircraft resumed controlled flight. “Reese, Blake, you all right?”

“Reese here. I’m fine.” Her breathing sounded labored. “Lost control for a minute.”

“Reese, Range Control. Charlie Mike?” The controller wanted to know if the Lebanese woman could continue. 

“Charlie Mike. Come and get me, Blake!” 

“Yang, Blake,” Blake called out, as she rolled out at the top of her climb, still keeping an eye on Chloris, far below. “Where are you?”

Captain Yang Xiao Long did not answer, because she was also not trying to meet a grisly, simulated death at the hands of one Captain Arslan Altan of the Turkish Air Force. She had less of an excuse than Blake: Altan was at least flying a F-16. 

Yang pulled hard into a left turn, cursing herself even as she heard Blake’s call, because she’d lost visual on Altan in the turn, which meant he was probably about to kill her. “Arslan, Fox Two!” Yang instantly reversed her turn, dropping flares behind her. There was no confirmation from Range Control, so she’d successfully evaded the simulated shot. She leveled out, just long enough to see the F-16 coming back in behind the twin yellow-trimmed tails of her _Ember Celica._ She counted one full second, long enough for Altan to get his gunsight on her, then snap-rolled her F-15 to throw off his targeting solution, then threw the Eagle into a gut-wrenching left break. The G-meter on the instrument panel buried itself past 9 Gs—nine times the gravity of the planet—and Yang felt like her G-suit was squeezing her in half. Blackness appeared at the edges of her vision and she screamed with sheer exertion. Finally, she came out of the turn, and much to Yang’s disgust, she looked out to see the F-16 level with her. Altan waved, her speedbrakes popped open, and the F-16 seemed to stop in midair as it began to slide behind her.

“Yang, extend out! I’ve got your bandit!”

Yang didn’t question the call. She snapped upwards into a hard climb, putting herself into the sun to throw off Altan if the F-16 followed her into the climb; unlike the Hunter against the F-14, the F-16 could keep up with a F-15 in a climb, at least initially. Altan, taken by surprise, pulled her speedbrakes back in and began climbing, but _Ember Celica_ was already out of range, far above her. 

“Ruby, Fox Two on Arslan!”

Altan heard the call and broke hard, but slowing down to get behind Yang had left her out of energy. “Range Control to Arslan. You’re a mort.” Arslan spit a vile Turkish curse, but immediately went back to level flight and turned east, to clear the exercise area. She watched as another F-16, almost identical to hers, shot past above her, its outer wing panels and spine painted bright red.

“You’re clear, Yang!” 1st Lieutenant Ruby Rose called out happily. Getting a simulated kill was pretty awesome on its own, but the fact that she had “saved” her own sister was just icing on the coolness cake. She kicked the tail around and dropped the throttle back, slowing _Crescent Rose._ “I’m dragging him for you, Weiss!” She started throwing the F-16 around a bit, just enough to keep her opponent from getting a good solution, dropping flares as well. 

Lieutenant Bolin Hori was also in a F-16: like his friend Arslan Altan, he was also a TAF pilot. He had been trying to keep the red-paneled F-16 in his sights for over five minutes, since the merge that started the fight, but every time the other Falcon was just able to slip out. It was embarrassing; the USAF F-16 was an A model, almost a generation older than his F-16C. Now, however, it looked like his opponent had finally gotten complacent, celebrating her victory when she should’ve been watching the sky around her. Hori took his own advice and did a quick scan through the bubbletop canopy, and saw a gray shape moving towards him. He put it out of his mind: it was undoubtedly the Eurofighter Typhoon that rounded out this Ruby Flight he’d heard so much of, but the Typhoon was well out of parameters for a missile shot, at over 90 degrees of deflection. Hori would dispatch the F-16, then turn into the Typhoon for a quick pass. “Any time, Nadir!” he called out. “There’s a F-15 and a Typhoon that need to be killed!”

“I’m tracking on the Typhoon, Bolin. Keep dragging her.”

Oberleutnant Weiss Schnee spared a quick look to her right, dropping the wing enough to see the delta-winged Mirage 2000 climbing out of the hard deck to get in behind her. She ignored it for now. “DUST, lock IRIS.” She looked in the direction of the Turkish F-16. Her Typhoon’s DUST—Defense Utility System Technology—instantly used her own eyeline to target the F-16 for the advanced IRIS missiles that hung under the wings of _Myrtenaster._ “Weiss, Fox Two.” 

Normally, Hori would have been right: the Typhoon was at the wrong angle for a heatseeking missile shot, even one as sensitive as the newest Sidewinders. The IRIS, combined with DUST, was a different story: it could fire off-boresight. _Myrtenaster’s_ nose didn’t even need to be pointed at the opponent. “Range Control to Hori. You’re a mort.” More Turkish curses filled the air as another F-16 went level and turned east.

Weiss turned right even as Ruby did the same, trying to trap Nadir Shiko between them. Shiko, a lieutenant in the Egyptian Air Force, saw the trap developing, and climbed to break away from both of them. “Reese, you’d better get your arse over here!” he called out. “I’m engaged with a F-16 and a Typhoon! Both the Turks are morts!”

“On it,” Chloris replied. “Let me finish off this _sharmouta_ of a Tomcat first!” She smiled, because that was not an idle boast. Blake Belladonna had evidently lost sight of her Hunter—easy enough, because the Hunter was a small target—and was motoring around near the hard deck, looking for her. Chloris opened the throttle and closed for a gun pass, wishing it was real. Not because she hated Belladonna, but because watching the Hunter’s four 30 millimeter cannon tear things up was fun. “Takka takka takka!” she called out, centering her sight on the F-14’s broad back. She was supposed to make a guns call, but _takka takka_ was traditional among fighter pilots, and Range Control would understand.

Except they weren’t responding. She had kept the gunsight on the Tomcat for the required three seconds. “Range Control, is Blake a mort?”

“Negative, Reese,” she heard Blake’s voice say calmly. “But you are. _Takka takka takka!_ Guns on the Hunter!”

The F-14 in front of her faded from sight. Chloris looked around frantically, but could not see the F-14. “No joy! No joy!” Then she saw the black-painted Tomcat slide up on her right wing, and knew she’d been had. Blake had watched her chase a hologram while she flew into the Hunter’s blind spot for a humiliatingly easy gun kill. 

“Reese is a mort,” Range Control confirmed. 

“Shit, fuck!” Shiko shouted; in this case, Arabic didn’t have the wide variety of curses as English did. He kept his finger off the radio button and stayed in the climb as the three aircraft of Ruby Flight milled around below, waiting for him to come down. _Wait a moment,_ he thought, _three?_

“Yang, Fox Two on the Mirage!”

“Holy _shit!”_ Shiko snapped the stick to the right as the shape of a F-15 hurtling straight at him blotted out the sun. He quickly rolled back to reacquire the F-15, but his break had been a fraction too late. “Shiko is a mort,” Range Control dutifully reported. “Ruby Flight wins.”

“Damn,” Shiko sighed. He leveled out and saw the yellow-nosed F-15 come up alongside. He shook his head and saluted. “Yang, Nadir. You are one crazy _al-kaliba.”_

“Nadir, I’ll take it as a compliment,” Yang replied. She returned the salute, then rolled away to join her flight far below.

Ruby took her hands off the throttle and stick for a moment to beat on the sides of her canopy in triumph. They had won. She checked the clock on her instrument panel: the entire battle had taken just under six minutes, a long time for air combat. “Ruby to Range Control. Permission for echelon low pass?”

There was a short pause. “Ruby, permission granted. Relay from Jehovah: no victory rolls.”

Ruby grinned. Ozpin was not going to let them put on too much of a show for the crowd. It was no secret that the commanding officer of Vytal Flag was less than pleased that it was a televised spectacle, and having a midair collision or crash because someone made a mistake would not help matters. “Ruby Flight, Ruby Lead,” she called out. “Low pass in echelon! Let’s see if we can blow a few hats off!”

She led them down to about a thousand feet. Weiss settled in on her left wing, her nose only ten feet from the inert Sidewinder on _Crescent Rose’s_ left wingtip rail. Only ten feet from Weiss’ left wingtip was Yang’s _Ember Celica,_ and six feet from the F-15’s wingtip was _Gambol Shroud—_ Blake getting closer because Marines had to do it better than the Air Force. 

Ruby Flight roared down the Wisconsin coast and flew over the breakwater of Sheboygan harbor. Below, the harbor was crowded with pleasure boats and the marina with onlookers, all there to get a glimpse of the air combat taking place over Lake Michigan. Ruby waited long enough for everyone to get a good look, then ordered “Break now, Rubies!” She pulled hard to the right; Weiss gave her a second, then did the same, followed by Yang and Blake. The effect would be quite the sight on the ground, each fighter splitting the air over the onlookers. Ruby laughed in sheer exhilaration, then slowed down and ordered her flight back into trail for the short trip to Beacon.

_Squadron Dispersal Area A_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_8 May 2001_

Chief Master Sergeant Arnold Vogelmord crossed his arms over his head, and the F-16 stopped about four feet from him. The earsplitting wail of the engine wound down, and the other ground crew placed wooden chocks under the wheels. He walked over to the side of the hardstand, grabbed the ladder, and set it in place as the canopy opened. Vogelmord climbed up to the cockpit as his pilot took off her red helmet and leaned back in the seat. He leaned in to help her unstrap. “Hey, good mission, Lieutenant,” he remarked. 

“Yep, not bad. Chalk up another victory for Ruby Flight!” They shared a grin. Vogelmord had been assigned to Beacon before Vytal Flag, and at first he had been surprised and a little taken aback at the arrival of Ruby Rose. She had not been scheduled for the exercise; Ozpin had approved her not even 24 hours before Vytal Flag had begun. What bothered the burly crew chief wasn’t her sudden arrival, but the fact that Ruby was barely above the minimum height requirement to fly the F-16. Every time she took off her helmet, it was like someone had let their little girl fly the plane. It had taken a little getting used to, but now they were a team. Her name was inscripted in red on the canopy frame on the left side; on the right was his. He swung off the ladder and held it as she clambered down. She hesitated, then stepped up to the nose, running her fingers over the nine kill marks painted there. Though the USAF officially frowned on kill marks and supposedly only allowed subdued ones, if that, _Crescent Rose’s_ were as red as Ruby’s helmet. 

They briefly went over a postflight, with the crew chief asking if there were any problems with the aircraft. There weren’t, so she signed the form that returned the aircraft formally to Vogelmord’s charge—though he would jokingly insist that Ruby only borrowed _Crescent Rose;_ it actually belonged to the crew chief, like a father who loaned out his sportscar to his teenage daughter. She put her helmet in its bag, and walked out of the hardstand to join the other members of Ruby Flight.

They walked towards her, and Ruby took a moment to admire her flightmates. Yang, as usual, was the most animated, her hands flying at each other as she barely held onto her helmet, loudly describing how she’d “killed” Nadir Shiko; Yang was proof that a fighter pilot can’t talk if their hands are tied. Her blond hair was even more of a fright wig than usual, plastered to her forehead with sweat, far out of regulation—not that Yang ever cared. 

Next to her, Blake listened patiently, helmet under one arm, a faint smile on her lips; her black hair had been let down to brush against her shoulder blades, a black bow tied in her hair. Ruby knew it hid feline ears, disguising the fact that Blake was a Faunus. Ruby wondered why she continued to wear it, since Blake’s species was the worst-kept secret at Beacon, but Blake insisted on doing so. 

Weiss was last, rolling her eyes good naturedly at Yang’s insistence that she had missed Shiko’s Mirage by a mere three feet, her white hair pulled up behind her in a tight bun, making her look like her older sister. Once they had changed and showered, Weiss would pull it into the more familiar side bun and long ponytail. 

Ruby felt a little misty-eyed. Yang was her sister—technically, half-sister, the daughter of a different mother, but Ruby never cared about the distinction. Blake and Weiss were her best friends. They had known each other not quite a month now, but she knew them as well as Yang now, linked by long weeks of boring classroom learning, exciting aerial training, and even more exciting aerial combat they had been lucky to survive. Occasionally, Ruby still woke up sweating, still seeing the streets of Milwaukee coming up at her when Roman Torchwick had nearly killed her during the Battle of Lake Michigan. Yang, she knew, had her own demons; her sister still hadn’t revealed why she had burst into tears a few nights before after the epic Battle of La Crosse, but Weiss had said Yang had nearly been killed by a mysterious blood-red F-22 Raptor. There was something in Blake’s past that still haunted her, though the Faunus girl had lost the hunted look she had when she had first arrived. As for Weiss, they all knew that she was not on the best of terms with her family—the Schnees, the wealthiest family in the European Union. 

They were Ruby Flight. They were hers to command, to protect, to love. 

“Hey, guys!” she greeted them. Yang broke off her story, and—much to Ruby’s chagrin—she drew her younger sister into a rib-bending hug. “Hiya, Rubes! Man, we kicked ass today.”

“We got lucky,” Blake remarked. “Yang, you and I screwed up. We never should’ve split up like that.” She blew out her breath. “I nearly got smoked by a Hunter. My _mother_ flew Hunters.”

“Meh!” Yang insisted. “But you didn’t. We won, they lost. That simple.” Blake shrugged, conceding the point.

Ruby slung her helmet over her shoulder as they resumed walking down the flightline. “I don’t know about you guys, but I skipped breakfast. I could eat the ass out of a rag doll.”

“Oh yeah?” Yang snickered. “I could eat the ass out of a menstruating skunk!”

Weiss’ face screwed up in utter disgust, and Blake turned a little green. “Thanks, Yang,” she groaned. “I’m not hungry all of a sudden.” A loud growl from her stomach showed that to be a lie, and Blake turned a little red as they all stared at her.

“Hey, you dirty blokes!” They all turned and Ruby was nearly knocked to the ground as she was tackle-hugged by Ruth Lionheart. She pried the Faunus off of her and waved to Emerald Sustrai, who was just behind them. “Hi, Ruth. Hi, Emerald.”

“Hey, Em,” Yang greeted the other pilot. “How did you do? I understand you were up against Cardinal Flight. Good to see the RAF got you another Jaguar, Ruth.” 

Emerald was not much taller than Ruby, her tanned skin betraying a lot of time spent in the sun of her native Spain; Ruth made no attempt to disguise her Faunus heritage, with ears that stuck out of her mane of brown hair and a lioness’ tail that swished behind her happily as she put her arm around Emerald. She grinned toothily. “Tell ‘em, Em,” Ruth said. “Tell ‘em how we squeeze played those Cardinal cunts.” All of Ruby Flight blushed a little at the profanity, but for a Cockney like Ruth, it was fairly commonplace. 

“We caught Cardin in a defensive break,” Emerald explained. “He dived away from me and right into Ruth’s gunsight.” She smiled hungrily. “But that was after I popped Sky with a missile shot at the merge. Cinder took out Dove and Russel on her own.” Emerald thumbed back towards Mercury Black, who was still postflighting his F-16. He did not bother to wave: after nearly sexually assaulting Weiss at the dance, Mercury had stayed away from Ruby Flight. His performance at La Crosse had lifted his restrictions on base, but that was all. “Merc didn’t get anything, and he’s _so_ pissed at Cinder.”

“Cindah is bloody frightening,” Ruth said. “Gor, don’t ever give her a F-22. She’d be fuckin’ unstoppable.”

“Where is she?” Weiss asked. “Since the party after La Crosse, we’ve barely seen her.”

“Cinder’s…Cinder,” Emerald shrugged. “Not really a social person.”

“She’s a right stone-cold killer,” Ruth told them. “I think she’s browned off because her kills haven’t been confirmed yet.”

“And who’s fault is that?” Emerald said. “Aren’t you still going over gun camera film? I made ace too, you know.” 

Ruth sagged. “Yes,” she grumped. “Glynda the Good Witch is still roaring at me after what I did in the bar the other night.”

Blake laughed. “Before or after you kissed me?”

“Bah, you liked me smacking you, you ginger beer.” Blake had spent enough time around Cockneys to know that Ruth was calling her queer, but didn’t take offense. “Just because I proposed marriage to Scarlet David? Gad. Why not? He’d be a fine one for a Faunus gel like me.”

“He’s also gay,” Weiss said. 

“Not after he’s had me.” Ruth gave an exaggerated sigh. “Ah, well. Guess I’d better get back to the grindstone before Cindah sends a rocket up my arse.” She slapped Emerald on the back, stuck her tongue out at Ruby Flight, and jogged down the flight line. 

“Who are you selecting for the 2V2?” Emerald asked. The latter half of Vytal Flag had been divided into rounds—flight on flight, then section on section, ending with the classic dogfight of one-on-one—1V1 in fighter pilot parlance. There was no trophy waiting at the end of the exercise, but everyone at Beacon wondered if public demand would result in Ozpin giving one anyway, despite himself. All the flights at the base would go through the rounds.

“Well,” Ruby said with weighty self-importance, “I have decided, as the leader of this flight—“

“Bullshit,” Yang snorted. “We put it to a vote.”

Ruby did not even bat an eye. “As the leader of this flight, I put it to a vote.” She put an arm around Yang and Weiss. “In a move that was totally not nepotism, I chose my big sis and my wingman…er, winggirl. Or whatever.”

“Disappointed, Blake?” Emerald asked, smiling.

“Not at all. I get to sleep in.” She thumbed at Weiss and Yang. “I’ll let these two get up at O dark 30 to defend the honor of Ruby Flight.” Weiss curtseyed, which looked ridiculous in a flight suit, while Yang smacked her fists together and flexed like a professional wrestler. 

Emerald bowed like a bullfighter. “Well, if Mercury and I end up going against you, then we’re not holding back. Cinder chose us to represent Creamer Flight.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Yang replied, but they all noted the good-naturedness had gone out of her voice. Yang still held a grudge against Mercury: at the dance, he had called Ruby a whore, besides assaulting Weiss. Yang had threatened to kill him for it. Both were angry, and Mercury drunk, but it took a lot for Yang Xiao Long to forget or forgive an insult. 

“We’re going to grab some grub, Em,” Ruby said, to change the subject. “Want to come with?”

Emerald shook her head. “I might catch up. I better go see what’s going on with Merc and Cinder.” She waved at them as she turned around. “ _Adios.”_ She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Ruby Flight had resumed walking down the flightline, then made her way to Mercury. “Hey,” he greeted her. He signed his form, and they began walking towards Cinder Fall’s F-15. 

“Hi,” she returned. 

“You okay?”

“Tired of this…acting like this.” Emerald closed her eyes and sighed. What Ruby Flight did not know—what no one on the base outside of herself, Mercury, and Cinder knew—was that they were not what they appeared to be. They had infiltrated Beacon, they were there to sabotage Vytal Flag, and there was a good chance that they would be called on to kill the very people that Emerald had been chatting so amiably with. Cinder’s aloofness was not feigned; it was pure contempt. Mercury didn’t care much, either. That left Emerald with pangs of conscience that she knew she shouldn’t have. Ruth Lionheart was completely innocent, and was just there to throw any investigators off the track. Emerald knew that Ruth was also considered expendable by Cinder and Mercury, and that bothered her. Despite herself, she had gotten fond of the vivacious Faunus. 

“Orders are orders,” Mercury said, sounding supremely disinterested. “You find out who’s going to be in the 2V2?”

“Not quite what we thought.”

“Oh?” he asked. “Not the catgirl and the bimbo?”

“Weiss and Yang,” Emerald corrected him. 

“Suits me. Never liked that Schnee bitch.” Mercury extended his stride, and Emerald was glad he did. He wouldn’t see the play of emotions on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the things that got me into RWBY was the reviews by Murder Of Birds on YouTube. I decided to honor him by making him Ruby's crew chief; his last name is a rough German translation of his YouTube handle.
> 
> I tend to do this...the two USAF people murdered by Sienna and Neo in the last chapter are based on two of my friends. "Francheska Malikov" IRL said she wanted to be a Faunus, wanted to be killed by her favorite character, and wanted to kick Adam in the nuts before she died.


	56. Hard to Say I'm Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As teams are chosen for Vytal Flag, Winter Schnee goes home...to confront Willow, her mother. Has the Schnee family actually been financing the White Fang all along?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad Volume 7 came out before I wrote this chapter. Willow is an interesting character; hopefully we haven't seen the end of her.

_Building 102415 (Base Exchange and Cafeteria)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_8 May 2001_

Like most American military bases, Beacon had a relatively large Base Exchange—BX in USAF language—and like most BXs, Beacon’s had a number of small eateries inside. Besides the usual Burger King, Popeye’s, and Subway, there was a locally operated place called A Simple Wok. The owner/proprietor was an older Chinese gentleman; none of the pilots knew his real name. He was simply the Shopkeeper. He never corrected the pilots when they called him that; he would just smile and nod. 

“Afternoon, Shop,” Yang greeted him. He grinned and gave her a small bow. “Bowl of the regular, please.” 

“Same same,” Ruby added. Another grin and bow.

“Ah…do you have anything low salt and low fat?” Weiss asked. She had weighed herself that morning, and found she had gained weight. Not much, far below what the Luftwaffe would consider overweight, but Weiss was sensitive about it. The Shopkeeper threw her an OK sign.

“Fish,” Blake said simply. He gave her a thumbs-up.

It took the Shopkeeper about ten minutes. Before each of them he placed a heroic bowl of noodles, topped with Southern fried chicken bits for Yang and Ruby, baked chicken for Weiss, and heaps of tuna for Blake, who openly drooled at the sight. “I got it,” Weiss said, and tossed her Schnee GmbH card on the counter. Weiss was paid fairly well as a Luftwaffe Oberleutnant, but when she felt like splurging, she drew on her considerable wealth as the heiress. 

“Whoa,” Ruby teased, “living large, Weiss? Usually you squeeze pfennigs so hard Otto von Bismarck’s ears bleed.”

“Otto von Bismarck isn’t on the pfennig, you dolt,” Weiss told her. She was glad it was Ruby who was doing the teasing; Yang probably would’ve said Hitler. “Think of it as a thank you for voting me into the 2V2 round.” She jumped in surprise when the Shopkeeper threw the card back to her. “Declined,” he said, his lips barely moving. 

“Declined? That’s impossible. Run it again.” The Shopkeeper did as asked; it was declined again. Weiss stared at her card in disbelief. “This has never happened before. Ever.”

“Oh God, _no_ ,” Blake cried. The tuna was so close she could taste it, but the United States Marine Corps frowned on dining and dashing, and she didn’t have any money on her. They were still in their flight suits. 

Another card slid onto the counter. “Relax, Blake. I’ll get it this time.” Pyrrha Nikos smiled at the Shopkeeper; her card wasn’t declined. She took a seat next to Blake. “Hello again!” 

“Pyrrha!” Ruby ran over and hugged her. Ruby was sweaty and needed a shower, but Pyrrha didn’t seem to mind. “Hey, Jaune! Hey, Nora! Hey, Ren!” Ruby greeted the rest of Juniper Flight as they arrived. 

Ruby was fanatically loyal to her flight, but she would put Juniper right with them. Whereas all but Weiss were Americans in Ruby Flight (Blake was dual citizenship with Menagerie, but Ruby didn’t count that), Juniper was diverse: Jaune Arc, the tow-headed leader of the flight, was French; Nora Valkyrie, short and ginger-haired, was an American; her beau, the raven-haired Lie Ren, was Chinese; Pyrrha, with bright red hair, was Greek. Juniper had flown and fought alongside Ruby Flight from the beginning, and all eight were now good friends. Once more, Ruby felt a pang of sorrow: in another two months, the exercise would be over, and everyone would go their separate ways. 

Juniper ordered bowls as Ruby dug in. While Weiss daintly broke her chopsticks in half and ate slowly and sparingly, Yang and Ruby eschewed the chopsticks for forks. Blake used chopsticks, but ate as if she had not eaten in weeks. If there was any doubt that she was a cat Faunus, Weiss thought to herself, watching Blake obliterate the bowl of tuna noodles would remove it. 

“Who are you up against next?” Weiss asked as Juniper was served.

“Tomorrow. Bronze Flight,” Jaune answered. “The all F-16 flight. Chinese, Korean, American and Italian.”

“You ready for ‘em?” Yang muttered around a mouthful of noodles.

“Hell to the yes!” Nora crowed. “We’ve got the famous Invincible Girl of Greece—“ Pyrrha blushed; she did not particularly like that title “—Ren the ninja—“

“Ninjas are Japanese,” Ren corrected her, “I would technically be a lin kuei.”

Nora ignored him. “Me, whose A-10 felled a mighty Nevermore—“

“Technically, Ruth Lionheart felled the mighty Nevermore,” Weiss said, smiling. 

Nora ignored her. “—and Jaune Arc!”

Ren pointed at Jaune with his chopsticks. “Are you going to take that, flight commander?”

Jaune shrugged. His getting command of Juniper Flight had been only because Pyrrha and Ren had refused it. They saw him as leadership material, and despite having already led them in several actual battles, Jaune did not quite believe it himself. “She’s not wrong.”

“Ah, excuse me?” Ruby said, tossing her fork into her empty bowl. She had finished before all of them; her metabolism was a neverending source of wonder at Beacon. “Jaune is an ace, you know!”

“I’m kidding!” Nora laughed. She gave Jaune a slap on the back, which might have collapsed a lung. “There’s no reason to be nervous, Jaune! I mean, it’s not like we’re on international TV with most of the known world watching us either live or simulcast and if we lose, we’ll be shunned and despised by our peers, no one will sit with us at the bar, and Ren and I have no parents and don’t have a home we can go to, unlike Ruby and Yang who can become potato farmers down there in Hickville, South Carolina—“

“Patch,” Yang said. “And it’s in _North_ Carolina.”

“Whatever Confederate state! I’m not nervous! Not nervous at all! Ha ha ha!” Nora snapped her chopsticks in half.

Everyone stared at her for a moment, then Ren patted her on the back. “We’re ready. After all, at least Bronze Flight won’t be trying to _actually_ kill us.”

There was a buzzing noise, and Weiss reached into her pocket to withdraw her phone. “You carry your phone with you on a flight?” Jaune asked.

“You never know when you might need it,” Weiss replied. She flipped it open and hung up on the caller, then put it on the counter. “There was a time in Serbia three years ago that an American pilot got shot down by GRIMM and was surrounded. He lost his survival radio, so he used his cell to coordinate airstrikes.”

“That’s a new one,” Blake said. She dabbed at her mouth, and sat back, supremely satisfied. Then a stentorian belch worked its way out of her mouth, enough to rattle the dishes and turn heads. “Pardon,” she whispered.

“From the belly of the beast,” Yang remarked. Blake gave her the finger. Yang’s response was interrupted by Weiss’ phone buzzing again. This time Ruby saw on the phone’s face who was calling. It was an international number, and above it was the word _Vater._ Weiss snapped it open again and hung up again, then shut off the phone entirely. 

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Ruby asked. “That was your dad.”

“I’ve nothing to say to him,” Weiss hissed. “Besides, if he wants to talk to one of his daughters, Winter should be there by now.” 

_Schnee Manor (Herrenchiemsee)_

_Near Munich, Federal Republic of Germany_

_8 May 2001_

Oberst Winter Schnee stepped out of the Luftwaffe UH-1D and ducked her head, holding her cap on under the rotors as her boots crunched across the gravel. Once she was clear, she straightened up and returned the salutes of the guards crisply as she made her way past the statue of Parsifal. In one gloved hand she bore a locked folder. She did not walk so much as she strode to the doors of Schnee Manor.

Before the Third World War and the GRIMM Invasion of the 1960s, Schnee Manor had been known as Herrenchiemsee, originally built in the late 19th Century for Ludwig II, the famous “Mad King” of Bavaria, and Bavaria’s last monarch. It had been a tourist attraction since Ludwig’s death in 1886, but in the chaos that followed the nuclear exchange, it had been abandoned. Nicholas Schnee had bought the place for far less than it was worth, refurbished it once the emergency was past, and turned it into his private residence. He had kept the name Herrenchiemsee, but Jacques—once he had married Willow Schnee and become the head of the Schnee GmbH—insisted on calling it _Schnee Herrenhaus,_ or Schnee Manor. The locals insisted on keeping the old name, but aside from the hired help, they were no longer allowed to visit. 

Winter hated Schnee Manor, no matter the name. Ludwig II had the excuse of being insane: his fanatical admiration of King Louis XIV of France had led him to build Herrenchiemsee as a near duplicate of Versailles. It was too large for Ludwig, and it was too large for the Schnees. Winter maintained a small apartment in Bonn, along the Rhine, and was happy for it; she only visited home when she had to.

And she had to.

She walked up the stairs, and was met at the top by Klein Sieben. “ _Guten abend,_ ” he greeted her. 

“Hello, Klein.” She meant to shake hands with her parents’ portly head butler, but instead ended up enfolded in a hug. Winter hesitated, then returned the hug. Klein, after all, had been her rock of strength, growing up in a broken home. He stepped back, holding her hands. “Look at you,” he said, smiling. “A full Colonel, now. All this braid and gold! On you it sits well, my lady.”

Winter could not resist a smile. “Thank you, Klein.”

“Will you be staying for dinner?”

“Only if forced.”

Klein’s smile became sad. “I understand. I am sorry to hear that. You are here to see the Lady Schnee?” The Schnees were no longer ennobled--Germany had done away with nobility after the First World War—but Klein always acted as if they were still the von Schnees that had served the Bavarian royal house for centuries. 

“I am,” Winter answered simply. Klein ushered her into the house; Winter pulled off her hat and tucked it under her left arm. She felt even more oppressed in here. If the exterior was overstated, the interior was lavish to the point of embarrassing, with soaring columns, gold filigree, and all the trappings of a monarchy long dead. Her boots clacked on the immaculate floor. As they walked, they passed the various butlers, maids, and other servants that served the Schnees, each bowing and curtseying as Winter and Klein walked past. Winter bowed her head slightly as she went past, and found she hated this as well. She had been getting her own coffee and cake; it seemed demeaning to force someone else to do it.

“How is Weiss?” Klein asked. Winter’s smile returned. Klein had always doted on the Schnee children, but Weiss was his favorite and always would be. Whereas Winter was rebellious and Whitley indifferent, Weiss was always eager to please and learn. 

“She’s fine,” Winter replied. “I imagine she will be promoted soon, or at the very least decorated. She has done quite well at Vytal Flag. In fact, she has made ace.”

“Has she made friends?” Winter’s smile broadened. Klein didn’t care if Weiss was decorated or promoted; he wanted to make sure she wasn’t alone.

“She has. Two Americans and a Faunus girl from Menagerie.”

Klein’s bushy eyebrows went up. “Your father won’t be too happy to hear that.”

“I’m sure Weiss could not care less.” _Wait until he finds out it’s Ghira Belladonna’s daughter,_ Winter thought to herself. She did not tell Klein; she was saving that one.

The butler sighed. “I wish this family was not like this.”

“But it is, Klein.” Winter had long since given up hope of any reconciliation. It was what it was. “Is Mother in her room?”

“She’s in your father’s study. Lord Schnee is away on business; he should be returning later tonight. Lord Whitley is still at Eton; summer break will not begin for a few weeks.” Klein hesitated, then continued. “You should be gone before Lord Schnee gets here.”

“Good. I know the way, Klein. I…” Winter took a breath. “I would prefer we not be disturbed. Or for you to hear what I have to say to Mother.”

Klein nodded sadly. “It will be as you say.” They hugged each other again. Winter once more paused before moving away. “Has she been drinking, Klein?”

“Yes. But she is not drunk. Not yet.”

Winter gave him a short nod, then walked towards her father’s study. Along the way, she walked through the Hall of Mirrors. This was one of the few places in the palace that held good memories; the long hallway had been where she, Weiss and Whitley had raced their little cars as children. When it was freshly polished, it was slick, and they had all “skated” down the hall in their socks many times, much to their father’s chagrin and their mother’s amusement. That was when they were still maintaining at least a façade of being a happy family. Winter caught her reflection in the mirrors as she strode down the hall. She was not afraid to admit to herself that she was a rather attractive woman, still on the wild side of thirty, her white hair piled up in a bun and combed out over her right eye, her one concession to individuality. The Luftwaffe dress uniform looked quite fetching as well.

Then she was out of the hall, and her smile faded as she took the stairs to her father’s study.

Jacques Schnee’s study was large, like every other room in the house, and richly paneled in wood, softly lit, one of the few rooms in the house to not retain its original look. Its walls were lined with shelves of books; Jacques was a voracious reader if nothing else. Behind the large mahogany desk were paintings of the Alps, and in the center, one of a young Jacques Schnee, a classically rendered painting of a handsome, rakish young man in a white business suit and scarf. Winter often wondered what her father had been like in his youth—if he had always been ambitious and power-hungry, or something had turned him into that.

The room had the faint, pleasant scent of peppermint, but Winter soured when she saw what was causing the smell: on the desk was an opened bottle of peppermint schnapps. She heard the toilet to the adjoining bathroom flush, the sound of running water, and then Willow Schnee walked into the study. She started in surprise on seeing Winter. “Oh! You’re here early.”

Winter said nothing for a moment. Willow Schnee looked remarkably well for a woman turning fifty; Winter thought that her mother probably still wore the same size she had at thirty. Her face was still attractive, still showed the faint hints of the fashion model she had once been, her white hair tied into a short ponytail draped over her left shoulder, but Winter noticed the strands of gray beginning to creep into the hair, and the worn look on the face. And the bloodshot blue eyes that betrayed too much drink. Finally she answered. “I am right on time, Mother.”

Willow checked the ornate clock. “So you are. I apologize. Would you like a seat?” Winter remained standing, and Willow sighed. “No, I suppose not.” She leaned against her husband’s desk. “I know better than to ask how you are doing, and other pleasantries. You’ve never been much for that.”

“No.” Willow set her hat on the small table below the desk, walked forward, unclasped the folder, and put several documents on the desk—the information Weiss had obtained, that showed Schnee GmbH had been funneling money to the White Fang for years, through dummy companies around the world. The revelation had rocked both sisters to their core: their father was paying off a terrorist organization, one that wanted the Schnees very dead. “Read this. The summary is at the top.”

Willow poured a small amount of schnapps into a glass, then picked up the summary. Winter waited in silence as her mother read the document. Halfway through, she reached out, grabbed the bottle, and drank straight from it. Then she set down both the bottle and the document, staggered over to the chair behind the desk, and collapsed into it.

“Aren’t you going to look at the other documents? The proof?” Winter asked.

“No.”

“No,” Winter repeated. “Because you already knew, didn’t you?” After some moments of silence, Willow nodded. “You _knew_ Father was paying off the White Fang.” Winter fought for control of herself. She wanted to reach across the desk, grab her mother by the ruffled collar, and haul her to her feet. “The very people who have been trying to kill us for the past eight or so years, the ones who made it so Weiss and Whitley had to have armed security just to go to school, the ones who kept me restricted to base for over a year for fear of my safety.” Winter’s fists clenched, the leather gloves audibly cracking. “And it didn’t even work! The White Fang are _still_ after us!” 

“Your father didn’t do it,” Willow said softly.

“I have evidence. Or rather, Weiss does. She was the one who gathered it, Mother. Don’t sit there and tell me—“

Willow suddenly shot out of the chair so fast that Winter took an involuntary step backwards. “Your father didn’t do it because _I_ did it, Winter! It was _me!”_

“Why, in the name of God?” Winter exclaimed.

“Because I was trying to _protect you!”_ Willow shouted, slamming a fist down on the desk so hard the schnapps jumped. “All I’ve ever done is try to protect you!” Tears ran down her face, spoiling the makeup. She could not look at Winter, and hung her head, hands spread on the desk. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted for my children…”

Winter did not even attempt to hide her shock. “Mother, I don’t…I don’t understand.”

Willow reached out, snatched up the bottle of schnapps, and turned it up until it was gone. She slammed the bottle down hard enough to crack it. “No, you don’t. I thought that, if the White Fang were given enough money, they would leave us alone. I knew they might still attack the DUST shipments, but I don’t care about that. I knew they would attack the Americans, but I don’t care about them, either. All I care about is you, and Weiss, and Whitley.” She wiped at her tears, smearing her mascara. “And it’s worked, Winter. They haven’t attacked us. They haven’t moved against Whitley at Eton. As long as the money keeps flowing, Sienna Khan will leave us alone.”

“But she’ll kill hundreds of others.”

Willow gave a tired shrug. “I don’t know them, Winter. I don’t love them. I love you.” She fell back into the chair. “You don’t know how proud I am, seeing you in that uniform. Or how proud I am of Weiss. I can’t show that, because your father disapproves. But I am.” She smiled. “I heard Weiss is now an _experten,_ like her great-uncle was.” _Experten_ was the term Germans used for aces. 

“But how did you know that?” Winter asked. “It hasn’t been confirmed or formally announced—“ Her eyes widened. “Jung Freud. Weiss’ crew chief. She works for _you,_ Mother.”

“Yes. It was my idea to sabotage Weiss’ aircraft. Your father approved, because he wants her back here. But I just wanted to protect her. I was wrong. I see that now.” Willow leaned against the desk, cradling her head in her hands. “You don’t have children, Winter. You don’t understand what it means to have a life inside you for nine months, to cradle an infant in your arms. I nursed you, Winter. Both you and Weiss, because I didn’t want to hand you off to some stranger of a wet nurse. I wanted to nurse Whitley, but Jacques wouldn’t have it; he said it was demeaning for a boy. You were…all so small…” Willow began to cry again. “If you were a mother, Winter, you would do anything for your children. Suffer any indignity, pay any price, bear any burden. For your children.”

Winter was silent, unsure of what to say. After long minutes, during which the only sound was her mother sobbing, Winter finally spoke. “Will you stop the payments?”

Willow took a deep, shuddering breath. “No. I have to protect Whitley, Winter. You can’t protect him. The British can’t protect him, even under an assumed name. The White Fang will find him. They’ll kill him.”

“The White Fang are broken,” Winter argued. “We’ve killed most of them.”

Willow laughed harshly. “They are like a hydra, Winter. For every one you kill, three more will appear. All the Faunus want us dead.” She stared over Winter’s shoulder, who knew what her mother was looking at: behind her was a portrait of Nicholas Schnee. “And maybe they have a right to.”

“You and I didn’t create the Faunus, Mother. We didn’t enslave them.”

“The sins of the fathers will always visit their children, Winter. We learned that after the war.” For the Germans, _the war_ would always be World War II. Even the nuclear horrors of World War III paled in comparison to the war that came before, and the twenty million murdered in the Holocaust, a shame that Germany would never live down. Willow finally faced her daughter. “I will not end the payments, Winter. I can’t.”

“Does Father know?”

“No. I’ve made certain of that.”

“What if I went public? Released this—“ Winter motioned to the documents “—to the press?”

“Then you will destroy all of us. Destroy your father—I know that you wouldn’t mind doing that.” Willow chuckled sadly. “Destroy me—perhaps you’d like to do that too, and you may be correct to do so. But you won’t destroy Weiss or Whitley, Winter. I know you won’t.”

“And in the meantime, how many die to save us?”

Willow said nothing. 

Winter took a step forward, pushed the papers towards her mother. “I’ll let you figure out what to do with those, Mother. Did you know that Weiss has befriended a Faunus?”

“Yes,” Willow answered. 

“Did you know that it’s Ghira Belladonna’s daughter?” The shock on her mother’s face answered that question for Winter. “If my sister and your daughter can become friends with the founder of the White Fang's daughter, then perhaps the answer isn’t paying off the White Fang. It’s fighting those who try to kill us and make peace with those who don’t.” She picked up her hat and tucked it under her arm. “But you’ve never been much of a fighter.” Winter held up the empty bottle of schnapps, and tossed it in the wastebasket. With one last, pitying look at her mother, she turned on one heel and strode towards the door.

“Winter!” She turned to look back at Willow. “I love you, Winter,” her mother said tearfully.

Winter turned away. “I love you too, Mother,” she whispered, and left the study before her tears could come. 

Winter did not see Klein on the way out, and was glad of it. She was even happier to leave Schnee Manor. Then she noticed another helicopter parked next to hers, decorated with the blue snowflake of Schnee GmbH, and her father walking towards her. Winter composed herself: there was no way to avoid her father, so they would meet.

Jacques Schnee was still trim and handsome, even if his mustache and hair was now completely gray. His suit was Italian, well-cut, and cost more than Winter made in a year, even on a Colonel’s salary. He stopped as she walked up to him. “Winter,” he said by way of greeting.

“Father.” Winter was often tempted to call him by his first name, just to anger him, but a childhood of obedience was too hard to shake. 

“What brings you here?”

“I needed to talk to Mother.”

“Oh?” he raised an eyebrow. “What about?”

“Ask her.” 

“You look well in that uniform,” Jacques stated. There was no warmth in the voice, but the undercurrent of disapproval. “I should think Ironwood would have made you a general by now.”

“Thank you. You’re looking well also, Father.” Then Winter could no longer resist. She pointed at his tie. “I see you’re still wearing clip-on ties, Father. Don’t you trust Mother to tie them for you anymore?” Jacques flushed red. It was a sensitive issue between them: Jacques Schnee might be the richest man in Europe, perhaps the most powerful, but he could not tie a tie. 

Winter decided to leave him there, spluttering, but Jacques was not quite done with his eldest. As she moved past him, he asked, “Will you be going back to Beacon?”

“Yes. I am General Ironwood’s liaison, after all.”

“Excellent! Then would you mind passing on a message to Weiss, since she’s not answering my calls?” Before she could agree, he continued. “She’s no longer heir to Schnee GmbH. I have decided to transfer it to Whitley. After he is done at Eton, he will return home to finish his education here.”

_And be trapped here,_ Winter thought. She faced her father. “So what does Weiss have to do to become heiress again? Where does she have to crawl?”

Jacques smirked, and would never know how close he came to being punched by his own daughter. “Quite simple, Winter. She needs to give up this ridiculous notion of following in your footsteps. Oh, she can remain in the Luftwaffe, but she’s made her point. Now she needs to come home. Before she gets killed in Ironwood’s or Ozpin’s damned fool crusade.”

“And stop palling around with Faunus?” Winter said.

“That would be a step in the right direction, yes.”

Winter thought about mentioning Blake Belladonna, but decided against it. Jacques could make trouble for Blake’s parents. “I’ll pass on the message, Father, but I already know what her response will be.” Without waiting for her father, she continued. “She would say, ‘Fuck you.’” Winter said it in English. It sounded a bit harsher and more delicious in that language. 

“I’ve already cut off her funds,” Jacques responded. It sounded weak.

“I’m sure she’ll learn to live on an Oberleutnant’s salary,” Winter remarked. “I did.” She turned her back on her father and walked towards her helicopter.

“Winter!” her father shouted. “You are still my daughter! You will show me respect. I am your father!”

_I am no longer your daughter,_ she thought. Winter turned, snapped to parade-ground attention, and saluted with the sharpness of a recruit. “ _Jawohl, Herr Schnee.”_ She held the stance and salute until Jacques, shaking his head, turned away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Herrenchiemsee is a real place, one of Ludwig II's three castles/palaces (the others being the better known Linderhof and Neuschwanstein.)
> 
> The part about the pilot using a cell phone to call in airstrikes is made up. However, it's based on a real incident in Grenada in 1983, in which a pinned-down Army Ranger unit without a radio used a landline to call Fort Bragg, which radioed the USAF, which brought in an AC-130. 
> 
> And no, I was unable to resist the meme of sticking Jacques with a clip-on tie.


	57. Bad Moon Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruth Lionheart, as part of her punishment, goes over gun camera film from the Battle of La Crosse. It's mind-numbing, until she discovers a terrible secret. Fox Alasdair and Velvet Scarlatina were not shot down by GRIMM--they were shot down by another pilot. The question is, was it deliberate or accidental?

_Building 103115 (Photo Lab)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_9 May 2001_

Ruth Lionheart yawned, an act that people who did not know her well would find terrifying. She would extend her tongue and expose pointed teeth. She smacked her lips loudly, took a drink of coffee—tea she found to be too weak to keep her awake—rubbed her eyes, and went back to work. 

Normally, Ruth would find this work to be exciting. Gun camera films were often that: activated when the pilot pressed the trigger, all aircraft had a small camera that showed where the bullets or missiles went. This was to prevent anyone making victory claims they had no right to make, as well as gain valuable information about the enemy. Sometimes they were exciting, recording for posterity an epic air battle, and sometimes they were boring—a split-second of an enemy aircraft shortly before it exploded. Either way, even the most avid military historian would get bored after the twentieth repetition.

Nowadays, instead of wet film, gun cameras recorded everything on the aircraft’s computer, which could then be downloaded and viewed digitally, though some older aircraft still used VHS tapes. Ruth counted herself lucky she didn’t need to use that. Normally, a team of enlisted men would go over the gun camera to determine who shot down whom, but Lieutenant Colonel Glynda Goodwitch had been so disgusted over Ruth Lionheart’s debauchery in the club that she put Ruth in charge, in top of her other duties. Ruth didn’t know what the big deal was—so she had kissed everyone in the club, including the Lieutenant Colonel; she was affectionate! Scarlet David was amused rather than offended that she had offered to marry him. Of course, there was her proclaiming loudly in gruesome sexual detail what she intended to do to Scarlet when they were married, and offering to prove that Faunus were anatomically no different than humans. _Goodwitch didn’t get upset when Yang and Nora showed their bras,_ Ruth thought grumpily to herself. _And Em tried to kiss Cinder!_

_Oh well,_ Ruth decided. Complaining wasn’t going to get this done any faster. She would review each kill at least three times, then hand it off to the enlisted men for processing and release to the public. Once all that was done, the pilots would be formally notified of their new status. Not that the process made much difference, since kill marks had already been painted on aircraft. Ruth knew it was more or less a formality. 

Ruth yawned again, then brought up the file labeled _Fall Cinder Maj USAF F-15C_ , which held Cinder’s downloaded gun camera films. She had been kidding with Ruby Flight and Emerald; Cinder actually had not said a thing about the gun camera, and didn’t seem to care that she had made ace. Her F-15’s nose only had kill marks because the crew chief insisted on it. It was more Goodwitch who was riding her to quit fooling around and get it done.

She clicked on _play_ and leaned back in her chair. There were the GRIMM kills Cinder had gotten west of La Crosse, in full color, and they were boring. It was all missile shots and Beowolves and Ursai being blown to pieces; nothing remotely interesting. _At least Nora had some interesting film, and Weiss’ was pretty fun._ She settled deeper into her chair, lamenting to herself that it was a good thing there were plenty of witnesses to her half-kill of the Nevermore, since her gun camera film had burned up with her Jaguar. _I really need to adjust the seat in my new one,_ she mused. _Sure was nice for the RAF to get me a new one so quick…guess they could’ve given me a bloody Harrier or something, though I would love to get me paws on a Typhoon—_

Ruth suddenly sat bolt upright in her chair and hit pause. She stared at the image in the screen, then reversed it, then restarted it again. “That can’t be right,” she said quietly. She watched it three more times, then a fourth just to make sure. “What the actual fuck…” Quickly, Ruth printed stills from the gun camera shots, then closed the file. She threw the stills into a folder and grabbed her hat.

One of the airmen assigned to the photo lab looked up as she dashed through the front door. “Ma’am?”

“Don’t wait up!” Ruth yelled back. “Got to run an errand!”

Cinder Fall and Mercury Black were just entering the Visiting Officers’ Quarters when Ruth caught up to them. “Hello, Ruth,” Cinder greeted her. “How are you?”

“Not good,” Ruth replied. “We’ve got a spot of Barney Rubble.”

“What?” Mercury asked. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Not here.” Ruth motioned them inside, and they all went to Cinder’s room. She opened the folder and spread out the stills. “What’s this, then?”

Cinder picked them up. In the luminous gunsight of a F-15 was a shot of a Panavia Tornado F.3. The stills showed cannon shells marching the length of the aircraft from just behind the rear cockpit to the twin engines, then fire spurting from holed fuel tanks and smoke from shattered engines. The last still showed the Tornado in a terminal dive, burning from the cockpit back. “Isn’t that Fox and Velvet’s Tornado?”

“Yep,” Ruth said, staring at Cinder. “And these were from _your_ gun camera films, Cindah.”

Cinder sat down on the bed. “They…they can’t be.”

Mercury stood at parade rest, his hands behind his back. “Ruth, you’re crazy. Cinder didn’t shoot down Fox and Velvet.”

“Don’t take the piss, Mercury!” Ruth snapped. “That’s what it shows!”

Cinder was shaking her head, her raven hair falling over her left eye more than usual. “But…that can’t be right. I didn’t shoot them down. I couldn’t have.”

“It’s your gun camera film,” Ruth insisted.

“You sure it’s not yours and you’re just trying to shift the blame?” Mercury said.

“Oh, fuck off, Merc. I was either with Nora and Yatsu or getting me arse shot off by a Nevermore.”

“Then you doctored them—“

“Mercury, enough.” Cinder waved him to silence, then returned her attention to the Faunus. “Ruth, I swear to God I didn’t do this. Are you absolutely certain it was me?”

“Yes.” Ruth took a breath. “Cindah, look. There’s been a lot of weird things happening since we got here. Merc, you trying on Weiss for a tidy at the dance—you claimed you were pissed, but you were sober. Em’s been acting all strange since La Crosse, like she’s hiding something from alla us; you chundering in the bushes after you disappeared from the dance…”

“What are you saying, Ruth?” Cinder asked, her voice suddenly dangerous. Mercury took a step forward.

“You’ve been leaving me out. I don’t really feel like I’m a part of this flight. Like you all just tolerate me. I get that me accent is enough to make someone go daft, and I’m a furry Faunus, and I’ve got a north and south on me that needs closing.” At their expressions, Ruth translated, “I’ve got a mouth that I can’t keep shut. And now this.” She motioned at the gun camera films.

Cinder reached out and put her hands on Ruth’s shoulders. “Ruth, I’m sorry. I can’t speak for Mercury or Emerald, but I have _never_ wanted you to feel left out. I imagine it’s hard being the only Faunus in a flight of humans. And I know you lost your mother in that awful accident with the Red Arrows not long ago.” She looked at her boots. “I’m not exactly the most personable person in the world, I’ll admit. But you can’t think I would shoot down Fox and Velvet. I wouldn’t.”

“But you did…” Ruth didn’t sound entirely convinced of it now. 

“I don’t know what happened…maybe in the heat of battle…” Cinder put a hand on her forehead. “My God, maybe I did. It was so confused up there. They could’ve crossed my three-nine line, just saw a shadow—“ she referred to the line from three o’clock to nine o’clock on the imaginary clock face that fighter pilots used for direction “—and I just opened fire.” She checked the timestamp. “Four seconds…yes, that has to be it.” Cinder looked horrified. “Oh my God. Friendly fire. I shot them down.”

Ruth picked up the stills. Blue-on-blue friendly fire incidents were uncommon in modern air combat, but far from unknown. The stress of air combat, the confused nature of the La Crosse battle, the feeling of GRIMM everywhere, the final run on the last Nevermore. _It could’ve happened,_ Ruth thought to herself. She weighed the stills in her hands. _I’m supposed to tell Ozpin. But it could’ve happened to anyone._ “I can’t,” she said quietly.

“Can’t what?” Mercury asked.

“I can’t tell anyone. It would ruin your career, Cindah.”

Cinder shook her head. “You have to, Ruth. There has to be an investigation.”

“No.” Ruth gathered up the stills back into the folder. “Cindah, I’ll delete the file. Besides, how would Fox and Velvet feel? To get gunned down by their own side. ‘Least this way, they think it was the bloody GRIMM. Besides, no one got cacked, so it’s fine, yeah?”

Cinder chewed her bottom lip. “That’s true, but still…”

“Nah. I’ll burn these. Creamer Flight’s little secret.” She turned to Mercury. “You solid with this, Merc?”

He hesitated for a moment, hands still behind his back. “Yeah. I’m cool with it. I won’t tell a soul, Ruth.”

“That’s a lad.” Ruth was taken aback when Cinder hugged her. “Steady on, Cindah!”

“Ruth, I am so sorry you felt this way. I will make it up to you, I promise.” Cinder stepped back and fixed her hair. 

“That’s fine, then.” Ruth grinned at them. “Better get back to the lab. Your other kills check out, Cindah. You have seven. Merc, you have four.” She threw them a salute and went to the door. “Check you later!” 

As soon as the door closed behind Ruth, Mercury let out a breath and brought his hands out from behind his back. In one hand was twisted the power cord for Cinder’s television. “Thought I was going to have to choke that bitch.” He turned to Cinder, his voice just above a whisper. “Cinder, she knows. She’s going to tell Ozpin. We have to kill her.”

Cinder sat on the bed. Her entire expression had changed from terrified confusion to cold calculation with the skill of a seasoned actress. “No, we don’t. She’s not telling anyone.”

“You think she actually bought your bullshit?”

Cinder stared at him. “Yes, I do. Because Ruth sees what she wants to. That’s how we’ve gotten this far, Mercury! People want to believe what they do, even when the truth is right in their idiot faces. As far as she knows, I accidentally gunned down Fox and Velvet in the heat of battle. She doesn’t think I did it deliberately.” She snorted. “I should’ve led them another half-second, then I would’ve put the damn shells through their heads.” Then Cinder shrugged. “Though I guess I’m the biggest idiot here, since I forgot about the gun camera. It’s not like I’ve had to pay attention to it in years.”

“I don’t think we can take the chance,” Mercury insisted.

Cinder got to her feet and advanced on him. “And what were you going to do, Mercury? Strangle her with that TV cord? That would completely blow the mission, you fucking moron! How would we explain a dead, strangled Faunus in my bedroom? We were having weird sex and she hanged herself?” She stabbed him in the chest with a finger. “Use your head, Mercury. If she does go to Ozpin, I’ll claim the same thing—it was an accident. What are they going to do—give me a letter of reprimand, like you? I doubt they’d even do that. Not with everyone wetting themselves over Vytal Flag right now. Friendly fire. That’s all it was.”

“So you really think Ruth will destroy the evidence?”

Cinder laughed. “Of course she will. She wants to be our friend, you dumbass. She wants to please people, just like her idiot father.” She waved it off and lay down on the bed. “Don’t worry about it. Ruth is no threat. In fact, we can work this to our advantage.”

“If you say so.” 

Cinder fluffed up her pillows. “I do. And I’ll remind you who’s in command here, Mercury. Now plug the TV back in. I want to watch Juniper fight Bronze. If we’re going to still pull this off, we need to know who’s vulnerable.”


	58. Reel Around the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's air combat time for Juniper Flight, as they take on the four F-16s of Bronze Flight. But Juniper and Bronze forget this is an exercise, and things can get dangerous, even in simulated dogfighting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for some more air combat, and the introductions to Indigo and Bronze Flight. Whew, RWBY has a lot of characters. Hard matching these people up to aircraft. Also, my search history includes a lot of "foreign cuss words."

_Yooper Air Combat Range_

_Upper Michigan Peninsula, United States of Canada_

_9 May 2001_

Jaune Arc felt his heart hammering in his chest as the Range Controller called “Fight’s on!” It wasn’t a real fight, and barring flying himself into the ground or a midair collision, he wasn’t going to actually die in it, but it scared him for some reason. He wasn’t sure why—it might be he had time to think over and plan this fight out, whereas the fight over La Crosse had happened so quickly he _hadn’t_ had time to think about it. 

Still, it wasn’t a bad plan. Off his right wing was Pyrrha Nikos’ F-16, close enough that they would appear as one blip on Bronze Flight’s radars. Well below them and to Jaune’s left was Lie Ren’s J-10 and Nora Valkyrie’s A-10. Ren was setting himself up as bait, luring Bronze low, ceding the altitude advantage to Jaune and Pyrrha; if they got too low, in the weeds, that was where Nora ruled supreme. For this operation, the hard deck was waived: the hard deck was the ground. It added danger to the hop, but Goodwitch had informed them icily that it wasn’t for the benefit of the camera: as they knew from actual combat, there was no artificial hard deck in real life.

Jaune tapped himself on the side of the helmet. He needed to get into the game. He glanced down at his radar scope. “Juniper, Jaune, I have three bandits in wall, bearing 94, angels 15, speed 500.” _Only three,_ he thought, _there’s another one out there somewhere._ It was a classic fighter tactic: put three or four aircraft out front, leaving a trailer far to the rear or swinging out to one side, to catch the attacker unaware. “Ren, Nora: there’s one more out there somewhere.” Unlike the knife fight in a phone booth of Ruby versus Auburn with guns and heatseekers only, this battle included radar shots. “Pyr, let’s take the guys on the right.” He swung his Mirage out a little, locking onto the middle F-16. Since Bronze flew nothing but F-16s, at least he didn’t have to worry about wondering what he was facing. 

“Pyrrha locked on rightmost bandit.” Her radar was slightly superior to Jaune’s.

“Jaune locked on. Fox Two!” He pressed the trigger. Were it real, of course, a missile would have shot off the rail and been on its way towards the target. Instead, the data pod that sat on the underwing rail transmitted a computer signal back to the computer at Beacon, that would then compute whether or not the “missile” hit. Pyrrha followed with her shot a second later. Jaune stayed with Pyrrha, waiting for Range Control, dividing his attention between the sky, his Heads-Up Display, and his radar. 

Then his radar went berserk. The three bandits suddenly broke formation, crisscrossing each other and dropping chaff, which blanked out his radar, but not before Jaune noticed the rightmost target was going low. There was no call from Range Control, so Jaune knew his shot and Pyrrha’s had been scored as a miss. “Ren, Jaune, watch it, one at your twelve o’clock high!”

“Pyrrha, tally-ho, two Vipers, eleven o’clock level!” Jaune saw the two F-16s curving towards them. “I’m spiked!”

“Break now, Pyrrha!” Jaune slammed the stick to the left as Pyrrha went right; there was no point in the close formation, now that Bronze Flight could see them. 

Pyrrha involuntarily grunted as the G-suit squeezed her in the hard right break, then immediately reversed her turn. The screaming tone of a missile lock stopped, which meant she had broken the lock. As she rolled back into the merge, she heard “Brawnz, Fox Two on Pyrrha!”

“ _Skata,”_ she murmured as she rolled and dived, popping flares. Another miss, but now the South Korean’s F-16 was following her into the dive. 

“Ren, Fox Two.” The range had closed too fast for radar shots, and Ren had quickly shifted to his simulated Sidewinders. He accelerated, popping flares as he heard Nolan Porfirio, the Italian, also call out a Sidewinder shot. Both missed, and Ren went through the smoke of Nolan’s flares as he broke left. He strained against the Gs to keep the F-16 in sight, cheating the turn tighter even as the Italian did the same, ending up in a circle over the forested hills of the Upper Peninsula. 

“Nora, Fox Two!” 

Nolan’s F-16 suddenly made a hard break and climb, more flares in its wake. He had been watching Ren so intently that he hadn’t noticed Nora’s A-10 waiting in ambush below him. Ren saw the A-10 fly past; she didn’t bother trying to follow the F-16 into the climb, leaving him for Ren. Nolan’s F-16 was an ADF model, identical to Ruby’s _Crescent Rose,_ and couldn’t quite match the engine power of the J-10. Ren began tracking for a rather easy Sidewinder kill.

Jaune, who had evaded a shot from Roy Stallion, the American, climbed and rolled out, trying to find Roy, who was there and gone in a flash. He spotted the F-16 climbing to meet him, but as Jaune turned into Roy, he caught a glint of sun off a canopy to his five o’clock low. “Ren!” he shouted. “Check six! Viper at your six!”

Ren instantly craned his head behind him, but too late, he realized that he himself was a target, and that Nolan had been dragging him. “ _Jian nu ren!”_ he cursed, because the next call was “May, Fox Three!” 

Ren threw the J-10 into a flurry of dodges, breaking the lock, but as he rolled left, there was another call: “Nolan, Fox Two on Ren!” Once more, Ren tried to break, but this time he was a fraction too late. 

“Ren is a mort,” Range Control called out.

“Shit!” Nora shouted, as she watched Ren’s J-10 level out and fly to the east; she knew him well enough that she could tell Ren was pissed, just by the way he flew. Then her own radar warning reciever went off, as the Italian F-16 dived on her, intent on collecting two scalps from Juniper. Nora put the nose down on the A-10, knowing she had no chance whatsoever of outrunning the F-16, but also knowing that Nolan was getting down into her territory. She listened for the tone of a lock-on. “Come on, come on,” she chanted, dividing her attention between the ground—which was getting very close—and the mirrors set into the Warthog’s canopy frame. Nolan wasn’t stupid: he had pulled up and was letting her get into his gunsight, knowing that she was trapped between the forest and the Viper. Nora only grinned; school wasn’t over yet. 

The tone went solid, telling her she was locked. As Nolan got out “Nolan, Fox—“ Nora stomped the left rudder and slammed the stick into her left knee hard enough to leave a bruise. At low level, the archaic straight wing of the A-10 was actually an advantage, and nothing could turn with it. _Magnhild_ skidded, engines roaring, and Nolan suddenly found himself staring down the seven barrels of the A-10’s GAU-8 Avenger. “Nora, guns, guns, guns on Nolan!” The Italian had been so stunned by the sudden turn that he hesitated a second too long.

“Range Control. Nolan is a mort.”

“That’s right, _boiiiiie!”_ Nora sang out as she flew past the F-16. Nolan sighed and turned to follow Ren out of the exercise area, very glad that it was simulated.

Jaune cursed as he evaded another simulated missile shot. Roy Stallion was all over him, and worse, was herding him towards the hills, to try and trap him against the terrain. Jaune took a chance, firewalled the throttle and climbed, holding the climb for a long three seconds, then breaking off the climb and leveling off upside down. The American was slow to follow, giving Jaune a precious second or two to breathe. “Pyrrha, Jaune, scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours!”

“Roger,” she replied, puffing. Brawnz Ni might have a weird name, but she had learned he was also a very good pilot, aggressive and not giving her a second. Still, she could use that. She acclerated and climbed, then turned so Jaune could drop in. 

Yet Bronze Flight was not playing by Jaune’s rules. As he climbed towards Jaune, Roy suddenly broke off and dived, rolling out behind Pyrrha, who now had two F-16s on her tail; Jaune was out of position, and knew it. So did Brawnz and Roy. 

Pyrrha saw the two F-16s in her peripheral vision. “Hmm,” was the only reaction she gave, and then proved why she was called the Invincible Girl of Greece. Even more than before, she became a part of her own F-16 as if she was a weapon system built into it, feet constantly moving on the rudder pedals, hands on the throttle and stick lightly. She would dart in and out of her opponents’ gunsights, never long enough for a good shot, always forcing them into near-impossible 90-degree deflection shots, then reversing into them, then climbing and diving. May Zedong, who was trying to angle for her specialty—the long-range missile shot—was screaming at Brawnz and Roy to clear so she could take the shot, but neither did, and not entirely because they wanted to be the one to get Pyrrha; it was also the fear that breaking off would make them a target. Both Brawnz and Roy made the cardinal sin of a fighter pilot: they lost situational awareness, too intent on their opponent. 

And it nearly cost them their lives. “Brawnz, Roy!” May shouted. “Watch it!”

“Bronze, you’re going to collide!” Jaune screamed.

At the last moment, Roy realized he was able to slide directly into Brawnz. “Jesus!” he yelled, and snapped upwards into a climb. Brawnz said something similar in Korean and dived; the two F-16s’ tails missed each other by two feet, and Brawnz felt the F-16 shudder as it hit the jetwash of his wingman. 

Jaune let out a breath in relief. Pyrrha, in the zone, never hesitated. She went into a shallow climb, settled her gunsight on Roy’s glowing afterburner, and calmly called out, “Pyrrha, Fox Two on Roy.”

May slammed her throttle forward in rage. She had been going slow, nearly at approach speed, trying to get her long-range shot. _“Sha bi!”_ she screamed, locking onto Pyrrha, who was low on airspeed. 

“Nora, guns on May!” May swung around in her cockpit, then began cursing herself. Sitting behind her F-16 as if it was a nice, sunny approach into Beacon, was Nora’s A-10. She had crept up behind the F-16.

“Range Control. Knock it off, knock it off.” The range controller realized that the combat was getting a little too personal, a little too dangerous. Blood was up, and both sides were forgetting it was a simulation. “May is a mort. Juniper wins. All Vytal aircraft, RTB.”

Jaune, who had remembered Blake Belladonna’s words from a month ago— _lie, cheat and steal in the cockpit; leave honor at home with your dress blues—_ had been tracking for an easy missile shot on Brawnz, but was happy to break it off. He joined up on Brawnz instead. “Brawnz, Jaune. You okay?”

“Yes,” Brawnz replied, breathing heavy. “Thank you.” He cursed, but Jaune realized that, like May, he was cursing himself for losing focus, not Jaune. “Congrats, Juniper. Good fight.”

“Just glad you’re all right.” Jaune waggled his wings, then went to rejoin Pyrrha and Nora.

_Squadron Dispersal Area A_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_9 May 2001_

Jaune caught up with Pyrrha as she walked down the flightline. “Hey,” he greeted.

“Hello,” she smiled. 

“You all right?”

_Good question,_ Pyrrha thought to herself. It wasn’t the fact that the exercise had nearly ended in disaster—it was hardly her fault that Brawnz Ni and Roy Stallion had forgotten to keep an eye on each other in their eagerness to get her—it was the fact that she had automatically put herself into position to “kill” Roy without even thinking. Of course, that was one of the reasons why she was such a superb fighter pilot, that she could do those actions below conscious thought, getting in front of her opponents mentally before they could even process the situation. It didn’t help how she felt, though. Not for the first time, Pyrrha wondered if it was time to call it quits and leave the service. She was already leaving Greece. 

They stopped by Nora’s A-10, where she was gleefully recounting the battle to Ren and Sun Wukong. Nora was very happy, having gotten two kills over far superior opponents, and would’ve gotten a third. The fact that the battle wasn’t real didn’t take away from her happiness. 

Neptune Vasillas walked up to them. He was in flight gear as well. “Afternoon, Jaune—Pyrrha.”

“Good afternoon,” Pyrrha replied. “You’re up next, are you not?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic,” Jaune observed. Neptune sounded like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“We’re slated to fight over Lake Michigan,” Neptune said.

“And?”

“I don’t like the water.”

Pyrrha was taken aback. “But you’re in the Navy!”

Neptune shrugged. “Let me rephrase that. I don’t mind the water. I’m just afraid of drowning. Or freezing to death. It’s why I never learned to swim. Figured I’d just go down like a rock and get it over with.” He raised his right hand and saw it was shaking. “Dammit. Knew I should’ve joined the Air Force.” 

Jaune looked past him. “Whoa. Is that Indigo Flight?”

Neptune immediately brightened. “Yep. That’s who we’re up against.” He pointed them out to Jaune. “Nebula Violette from your neck of the woods, Jaune; Dew Gayl from Israel, Gwen Darcy of the RAF, and Octavia Ember from the Royal Jordanian Air Force.” He smiled at them as they walked past. “Ladies,” he bowed.

They studiously ignored him, but then Gwen stopped. Her eyes got big, and she shyly waved. Neptune waved back, grinning, and then realized who was standing behind him. Sun was also grinning at Gwen, and as usual, his flight suit was unzipped to his navel, his survival vest open and G-suit slung over his shoulder. And as usual, his impressive abdominal muscles and pectorals were on gleaming display. Even Pyrrha could not help but glance at him, and hurriedly looked away before Jaune noticed. Gwen continued to wave and started to drool when Octavia sighed, walked back, and began dragging her along.

“You’re a dick,” Neptune murmured to Sun, who kept waving at the girls, all of whom kept looking back at him.

“Psychological warfare,” Sun said through his grin. “Now when they fight us, all they’ll think about is my abs.”

Scarlet David and Sage Ayana came up to them. “Yo,” Scarlet called out. “We flying or flirting?”

“You’re just jealous,” Sun told him. Scarlet rolled his eyes. Sun turned to Pyrrha. “Good luck kiss, Pyr?”

She leaned over—she wasn’t much shorter than him—and kissed his cheek. “Good luck, Sun.” He used his tail to gently slap her rear, then walked towards his Ching Kuo. Jaune pretended he wasn’t jealous. 

“Whoa,” Nora said as she came up to the knot of pilots with Ren, “you getting flirty with Sun?”

“Not at all,” Pyrrha said. “He’s not my type.” She threw Jaune a quick, shy glance, which he caught. It instantly made him feel better. 


	59. One Bad Stud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter Schnee is back at Beacon, and Weiss and Ruby go to meet her. Winter's not in a great mood after learning about her mother's support of the White Fang, but she's going to be in an even worse mood when a certain dusty old Qrow shows up at Beacon as well.
> 
> Or is she?

_Squadron Dispersal Area A_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_9 May 2001_

Ruby got to the flightline as Sun Flight taxied past. She threw Sun a wave, and watched in satisfaction as the FCK-1 went past, followed by Neptune’s F-18, Scarlet’s Lavi, and Sage’s F-104. That wasn’t what she was here for, however. That came when it was Indigo’s turn. Ruby’s reaction to the sight of Nebula’s F-8E Crusader was the same as Gwen Darcy’s reaction to Sun’s abs. “Ooo,” she cooed. The F-8 was long gone from American inventories, but the French Aeronavale still had a few. It was ancient, predating the Third World War, but in the hands of a good pilot, it was still competitive. It was likely the last time she would ever see one, as the Aeronavale was slated to replace them with Dassault Rafales soon. Compared to the F-8, Dew’s F-15 and Octavia’s F-16 was old hat, though Ruby noticed that Octavia was flying the same model of F-16 as _Crescent Rose._ The sight of Gwen’s Harrier GR.7 gave her a start; Ruby would never look at Harriers without thinking of Roman Torchwick. 

“There you are.” Ruby turned and saw Weiss standing next to her. “I thought you were coming with me to say hello to my sister.”

“I am, I am!” Ruby told her. “Just had to see that F-8!”

Weiss did not share Ruby’s appreciation of aviation history; to her, the Crusader was an outdated relic that would be meat for her Typhoon. “Are you coming or not?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ruby followed Weiss towards the transient ramp, where a C-130 was parked, the Klong shuttle that had brought Winter back from a long flight to Germany. Beyond the C-130 was the now-familiar shape of Penny’s B-1, back for the rest of Vytal Flag. 

Winter was standing near the ramp of the C-130, watching as boxes and crates were unloaded. She turned at the approach of Ruby and Weiss. “Winter!” Weiss called out happily. The elder Schnee sister graced her with a frosty glare. Weiss instantly came to attention and saluted her sister. “Oberst Schnee.”

“Oberleutnant Schnee.” Weiss elbowed Ruby, who came to attention and saluted as well. “Lieutenant Rose.” Now that the military proprieties were finished, Winter motioned to the crates. “IRIS missiles for you, Oberleutnant, to replace the ones you fired over La Crosse. We also have much to talk about, as soon as this is finished.”

“Shopkeeper has a new rice bowl on his menu—“ Ruby began.

“Alone.”

Ruby swallowed. Weiss felt sorry for her friend; unlike Ruby, she could tell when Winter was agitated: she tended to hide within the knowable rules and traditions of the military. When they were children, Weiss always knew her sister was upset when she became flawlessly formal and completely controlled. It was a cold rage that froze rather than melted. “Okay—er, yes, ma’am, Colonel. I will, er, reconvene with you both at a later…” Ruby’s memory for formalities faltered under that glacial stare. “Junction—er, juncture. Yeah, juncture.” She decided now would be a good time to go say hi to Penny, and walked around the C-130 towards the B-1.

“It went badly?” Weiss asked in a low voice.

“It went as well as it usually does,” Winter answered.

“Badly,” Weiss confirmed. She stood in silence until the last of the crates were loaded on a truck. Satisfied, Winter turned and began walking towards the terminal, with Weiss falling in behind and to her sister’s right. 

“Hey. Ice Queen.”

Both Schnees turned at that. Weiss did not recognize the tall man, though he wore a USAF flight suit that had seen better days, faded and worn. His graying black hair was tousled, and he needed a shave. There was no rank on his shoulders, nor was there a nametape or wings. “Excuse me?” Weiss demanded. “Who are you talking to?”

The man stepped forward to within arm’s length of them, and, to Weiss’ surprise, he stuck a hand in her face. “Not you, Princess. I’m talking to her.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Hello, Winter.”

Winter’s hands clenched into fists inside their gloves. “Qrow Branwen.”

“You remembered,” Qrow replied.

“You’re hard to forget.”

“Thanks!” His smile grow wider.

“It wasn’t a compliment.” Winter’s hands went to the small of her back. “I don’t have time for your immature games, _Major._ ” She emphasized his rank. 

Weiss finally got over her shock at the tall man’s temerity. Now that he was close to her, her nose wrinkled with the smell of an unwashed flight suit and strong liquor; she thought this Qrow Branwen smelled like a wino. “You know each other?” she asked, which was something of a dumb question.

“Unfortunately.” Without taking her eyes off Qrow, Winter said, “Major Branwen, this is my younger sister, Oberleutnant Weiss Schnee.”

Weiss decided to be neighborly, and besides, he did technically outrank her. She came to attention and gave him a parade-ground salute. Qrow did not even glance at her, but tossed off the most half-assed salute Weiss had ever seen, and she roomed with Yang Xiao Long. “Another Schnee. The most powerful family in Europe.” Sarcasm fairly dripped from his lips.

“Why, you—“ Weiss began, but Winter held up a hand. “Oberleutnant,” she said, “you need to go. Major Branwen and I have unfinished business.”

Weiss backed off a few steps. “That’s right,” Qrow said. “Listen to big sister. She’ll protect you. Just like her boss. Just like her family.”

Winter’s lips peeled back in a feral snarl. “You complete bastard,” she snapped. “One more thing about my family and I will drop you right here.”

Qrow stepped back and raised his hands. “Oh, shit, I’m scared!” He leered at her. “If only you had an airplane, Winter. I heard they gave you a wing back in Krautland, but you didn’t bring anything with you but this trash-hauler.” He thumbed at the C-130. “Hell, I heard you were riding around in BUFFs. You a bomber puke now because you can’t handle fighters?”

“Oh, I can get a fighter,” Winter growled. “I can borrow _Myrtenaster_ from my sister. It was mine, after all.”

“Don’t even know what the hell that is.”

“It’s a Typhoon, moron.” She made a great show of looking around. “Speaking of aircraft, Major, I don’t see yours.” She gave him a cold smile. “Oh, that’s right. You’re still flying that F-117, aren’t you? Fighter in name only?”

Qrow bristled. “You know it’s been modded.”

“With what? A wet bar?” Winter snorted. “Why don’t you get in your Wobbling Goblin—“

“Nighthawk,” Qrow interrupted.  
She ignored the correction. “—and I’ll borrow Weiss’ Typhoon. We’ll go up and have ourselves a nice little fight. I’ll even spot you actives and go guns only, because it would give me _great_ pleasure to ventilate your ass.”

Qrow’s smirk returned. “Always knew you couldn’t keep your eyes off my ass.”

Winter made a sputtering noise, and her hands came up as if to strangle Qrow. “I swear to God I’m going to—“

“Oberst Schnee!”

Winter instantly turned and came to attention, as did Weiss as Lieutenant General James Ironwood strode towards them. He returned their salutes. In his wake was Ozpin and Glynda Goodwitch, the former using his cane as a walking stick and the latter looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. “What do you think you’re doing, Oberst?”

Winter hesitated. “He started it, sir,” she finally said, and instantly wished she hadn’t.

Ironwood faced Qrow. “What the hell are you doing here, Branwen?”

“Could be asking you the same thing, Jimmy.” Qrow only kept that maddening smirk on his face. 

Before another fight could stop, Ozpin intervened. “Shall we have this discussion in my office, ladies and gentlemen?” He nodded to the men and women who had been unloading the C-130, watching the altercation and now at attention. “Carry on, working party.” As they went back to work, Ozpin smiled at Qrow, nodded, and turned around in the general direction of his office. Goodwitch spared Qrow a withering stare, and followed her commander. After a moment, Ironwood, Winter, and Qrow did as well.

Ruby, who had come back around the C-130 after finding Penny nowhere near the B-1, suddenly spotted him. “Uncle Qrow!” she said happily. She ran towards him, only to skid to a halt and come to attention at the sight of Ironwood. The general’s expression softened a bit, he returned her salute, and gave her a quick nod. She finished making her way to her uncle. “When did you get here? Why didn’t you come see me? Are you here to see me?”

“Just a bit ago.”

Ruby’s eyes widened. “Did you bring your F-117?” She looked around frantically, as if the stealth aircraft had somehow magically appeared while she was searching for Penny. 

“It’s parked on the other side, down by the bomb bunkers. Oz—Captain Ozpin’s orders.” He grinned at her. “We can go check it out later, but first…” Qrow lowered his voice. “I think I’m in trouble.”

“Shit, Uncle, when aren’t you—“ Ruby turned red. “Oh, sorry, Uncle, didn’t mean to cuss.”

He ruffled her hair affectionately. “Ah, you’re old enough now. Besides, I heard you tied one on a few weeks ago.” He bent down and gave her a quick peck on the forehead. “I gotta go, but after Ironwood bites a few chunks out of my ass, we’ll catch up—you, me and Yang.”

“Heck yeah!” They exchanged a fist-bump, and Qrow walked off, slightly hunched over as was typical. 

Weiss came up to stand next to Ruby. “He’s your uncle?” At her happy nod, she stared at him walking away. “Suddenly you make sense.”

“Whatevs. He’d kick your sister’s ass.”

Weiss didn’t feel like being drawn into a debate. She knew her conversation with Winter about her family would have to wait. “He needs to stop _staring_ at my sister’s ass. Dirty old man.” She ignored Ruby sticking her tongue out, and couldn’t resist a wave as Winter glanced back at them. Her sister didn’t return the wave, but Weiss could swear that the elder Schnee was suddenly in a better mood.

_Building 71414 (Commander’s Office, JRB Beacon)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_9 May 2001_

Once the door to Ozpin’s office was closed, Ironwood whirled on Qrow and Winter. “Great example for the troops there, both of you. You want to have a fight, don’t do it in front of fellow officers and enlisted men!” He stabbed a finger at Qrow. “Just because you’re a free Huntsman who gets to fly wherever he likes doesn’t mean you don’t act like an officer, Branwen!”

Winter smirked at Qrow. “If he was one of my troops, I’d poison his liquor.”

Qrow grinned back. “If I was one of your troops, I’d drink it.”

Goodwitch banged a fist on Ozpin’s desk. “Enough, both of you! You sound like children!”

It was Winter’s turn to point at Qrow. “He’s drunk!”

“He’s _always_ drunk!” Goodwitch shot back.

“I am not!” Qrow protested. He pulled out a flask from his flight suit and rattled it with a gurgling of whiskey. “Barely touched it.”

Ozpin, who had gotten to his seat, rubbed his temples. “Ladies, gentlemen, _please._ ” They quieted. “First things first. Qrow, it’s a _pleasant_ surprise to see you, but why are you here?”

“That’s a good question,” Ironwood said. “You’ve been out of communication for quite awhile, Major. Your last report to Colonel Schnee said there had been no uptick in GRIMM activity, and then we get hit with the biggest GRIMM attack in over a decade.”

Qrow leaned against a chair. “Jimmy—“

“General,” Winter corrected.

“Jimmy,” Qrow continued, “my recon work has been down in the Southwest. Not up here. I also had to cover a lot of ground. You _do_ know that we’ve lost a shitload of Huntsmen and Huntresses in the past few months.”

“We know,” Ironwood replied. “Do you have any information about that?”

“Still working on it.” He looked at Ozpin. “To answer your question, Oz, I came here because Arashikaze asked me to. After my last mission I stopped by Greenbrier.”

“She hasn’t communicated with me,” Ozpin told him.

“She thinks the information is too sensitive to be trusted to e-mail or phone. She wanted to let you know she’s lost communication with Source Camo, but that Camo’s last message hinted that Salem’s attack would be soon.  
Goodwitch sighed. “That’s the CIA for you. Predicting attacks _after_ they happen.”

Qrow shook his head. “Arashikaze’s contacts say that the attack was supposed to include a ground attack by the White Fang, helped by infiltrators and a GRIMM attack. No details, just that. She thinks Camo only had time to get off a quick message.”

Ozpin steepled his fingers. Camo was the CIA’s deep cover operative, embedded either with the White Fang and/or with Torchwick’s gang. Ozpin didn’t even know Camo’s gender, and, though he wasn’t much of a praying man, said some words for Camo every night—because if Camo was exposed, God would be their only help. He’d heard the White Fang used torture on people who betrayed them.

“Then Ruby Flight _did_ trip the attack too early,” Goodwitch mused, suddenly quiet. “Did the message come before or after the attack?”

“Before. But it means that the infiltrators are here already.” Qrow finally gave in and took a swig from his flask. Seeing them staring at him, he offered the flask to anyone else. There were no takers. “I heard there was a break-in in the computer center.”

“There was,” Goodwitch answered. “So far, we’ve found no evidence of anything being downloaded.”

“What about uploaded?” Qrow wanted to know.

“Again, nothing. So far.”

“Well, it gets worse.” Qrow took another drink, a smaller one. “My sources also have reason to believe that the people we’re up against are the ones who shot down Amber.” He paused. “How is she, by the way?”

Ozpin’s voice dropped. His office wasn’t bugged, but it was habit when talking about the Maidens. “Not good. Her condition has worsened.”

“You have a successor?”

“We will soon,” Ironwood answered. “Which reminds me, Winter—how is Freya?” He did not ask about the Schnees; he didn’t want to air out dirty family laundry in front of Qrow. Not when Winter so obviously despised him.

“She had a mild case of pneumonia, but she’s recovering.” Checking on Freya Gletscher was the other reason Winter had gone back to Germany.

“At least we won’t have to replace two of them.” Ironwood turned his attention back to Qrow. “The White Fang took pretty horrific casualties the other day, and the GRIMM as well. I think we have enough here to take care of anything else.”

“A whole armored division was a bit much,” Qrow said, “but you know how fast Sienna Khan can gather recruits.”

“The moment she sticks her head out of whatever hole she’s crawled into,” Winter replied, “we’ll chop it off.”

Qrow raised the flask, thought better of it, and put it back in his flight suit. “I hope you’re right. I’ll tell you something else one of my sources said: a storm’s coming. And what you guys saw over La Crosse is just the leading edge.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The French Aeronavale really was still using F-8s in 2001!


	60. In the Air Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qrow gives his report to Ozpin, Ironwood, Glynda and Winter. It's not good news, but Winter might be enjoying this more than she lets on. Meanwhile, Ruth Lionheart gets a surprise peace offering from Mercury Black.

_Building 71414 (Commander’s Office, JRB Beacon)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_9 May 2001_

Once the door to Ozpin’s office was closed, Ironwood whirled on Qrow and Winter. “Great example for the troops there, both of you. You want to have a fight, don’t do it in front of fellow officers and enlisted men!” He stabbed a finger at Qrow. “Just because you’re a free Huntsman who gets to fly wherever he likes doesn’t mean you don’t act like an officer, Branwen!”

Winter smirked at Qrow. “If he was one of my troops, I’d poison his liquor.”

Qrow grinned back. “If I was one of your troops, I’d drink it.”

Goodwitch banged a fist on Ozpin’s desk. “Enough, both of you! You sound like children!”

It was Winter’s turn to point at Qrow. “He’s drunk!”

“He’s _always_ drunk!” Goodwitch shot back.

“I am not!” Qrow protested. He pulled out a flask from his flight suit and rattled it with a gurgling of whiskey. “Barely touched it.”

Ozpin, who had gotten to his seat, rubbed his temples. “Ladies, gentlemen, _please._ ” They quieted. “First things first. Qrow, it’s a _pleasant_ surprise to see you, but why are you here?”

“That’s a good question,” Ironwood said. “You’ve been out of communication for quite awhile, Major. Your last report to Colonel Schnee said there had been no uptick in GRIMM activity, and then we get hit with the biggest GRIMM attack in over a decade.”

Qrow leaned against a chair. “Jimmy—“

“General,” Winter corrected.

“Jimmy,” Qrow continued, “my recon work has been down in the Southwest. Not up here. I also had to cover a lot of ground. You _do_ know that we’ve lost a shitload of Huntsmen and Huntresses in the past few months.”

“We know,” Ironwood replied. “Do you have any information about that?”

“Still working on it.” He looked at Ozpin. “To answer your question, Oz, I came here because Arashikaze asked me to. After my last mission I stopped by Greenbrier.”

“She hasn’t communicated with me,” Ozpin told him.

“She thinks the information is too sensitive to be trusted to e-mail or phone. She wanted to let you know she’s lost communication with Source Camo, but that Camo’s last message hinted that Salem’s attack would be soon.  
Goodwitch sighed. “That’s the CIA for you. Predicting attacks _after_ they happen.”

Qrow shook his head. “Arashikaze’s contacts say that the attack was supposed to include a ground attack by the White Fang, helped by infiltrators and a GRIMM attack. No details, just that. She thinks Camo only had time to get off a quick message.”

Ozpin steepled his fingers. Camo was the CIA’s deep cover operative, embedded either with the White Fang and/or with Torchwick’s gang. Ozpin didn’t even know Camo’s gender, and, though he wasn’t much of a praying man, said some words for Camo every night—because if Camo was exposed, God would be their only help. He’d heard the White Fang used torture on people who betrayed them.

“Then Ruby Flight _did_ trip the attack too early,” Goodwitch mused, suddenly quiet. “Did the message come before or after the attack?”

“Before. But it means that the infiltrators are here already.” Qrow finally gave in and took a swig from his flask. Seeing them staring at him, he offered the flask to anyone else. There were no takers. “I heard there was a break-in in the computer center.”

“There was,” Goodwitch answered. “So far, we’ve found no evidence of anything being downloaded.”

“What about uploaded?” Qrow wanted to know.

“Again, nothing. So far.”

“Well, it gets worse.” Qrow took another drink, a smaller one. “My sources also have reason to believe that the people we’re up against are the ones who shot down Amber.” He paused. “How is she, by the way?”

Ozpin’s voice dropped. His office wasn’t bugged, but it was habit when talking about the Maidens. “Not good. Her condition has worsened.”

“You have a successor?”

“We will soon,” Ironwood answered. “Which reminds me, Winter—how is Freya?” He did not ask about the Schnees; he didn’t want to air out dirty family laundry in front of Qrow. Not when Winter so obviously despised him.

“She had a mild case of pneumonia, but she’s recovering.” Checking on Freya Gletscher was the other reason Winter had gone back to Germany.

“At least we won’t have to replace two of them.” Ironwood turned his attention back to Qrow. “The White Fang took pretty horrific casualties the other day, and the GRIMM as well. I think we have enough here to take care of anything else.”

“A whole armored division was a bit much,” Qrow said, “but you know how fast Sienna Khan can gather recruits.”

“The moment she sticks her head out of whatever hole she’s crawled into,” Winter replied, “we’ll chop it off.”

Qrow raised the flask, thought better of it, and put it back in his flight suit. “I hope you’re right. I’ll tell you something else one of my sources said: a storm’s coming. And what you guys saw over La Crosse is just the leading edge.”

_Building 111415 (Visiting Officer’s Quarters)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_9 April 2001_

Ruth Lionheart was four chapters into _Ninjas of Love III: The Kunoichi Returns_ , and quickly turned the page. “Oh wow,” she breathed. “Blake wasn’t kidding.” She was at a particularly steamy scene, where the daimyo’s daughter stripped for the wandering samurai, when someone began knocking on her door.

“Oh, stone the crows,” Ruth grumbled. When the knocking sounded again, she quietly cursed, threw off the sheets, threw on a bathrobe, and walked to the door. “Who is it?”

“Mercury.”

Ruth opened the door a little. She was tempted to tell him to fuck right off, but decided to be polite. “’Ello, Merc. What’s up?”

His hands were behind his back again. He paused, then whipped out a bottle of scotch. “Peace offering?”

Ruth clapped her hands together. “Johnny Walker Red! Aw, Merc, you shouldn’t have.” She held out her hands, and with a flourish, he placed the bottle in them. Ruth clasped the bottle to her chest theatrically. She noticed the label was broken. “Here, now, did you take a drink?”

Mercury laughed. “You’re damn right I did. That’s the good stuff.”

“So it is.” She looked him up and down. Mercury wasn’t bad looking, and _Ninjas of Love_ had left her a little hot and bothered. She and Neptune had ended up hooking up the night after the dance, but he hadn’t shown her much attention since. Then again, she had been rather enthusiastic. She gave him a sultry look. “Fancy a nightcap, Merc?” She accidentally-on-purpose bent over a little, allowing the bathrobe to whisper open just enough for him to tell that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

Mercury swallowed at the sight. “Uh…no. Tempting, but…better not.”

Ruth shrugged. “Ah, well. Can’t blame a gel for tryin’.” She winked at him. “Offering accepted, Merc. And I destroyed those pictures, if that’s what you were worried over.”

“Nah. I trust you.” He spread his hands. “Fact is, I’ve been kind of an ass lately. So I’m…I’m sorry.”

Ruth leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Apology accepted. If you change your mind…I’ll leave me door unlocked.” She turned, wiggled her tail at him from where it stuck out under the bathrobe, and closed the door behind her.

She walked over to the nightstand, found a cup, and poured a small amount of scotch into it. Then she shrugged and poured a lot more. “What the hell,” she said aloud, “I’m not flying tomorrow.” The 2V2 rounds were due to begin the next day, and Cinder had chosen Mercury and Emerald for the round against Coffee Flight. Ruth wasn’t offended; her Jaguar just wasn’t suited to that sort of fighting. Then she settled down under the covers and finished the chapter. 

Ruth got another two chapters under her belt before her eyes felt droopy. After she’d read the same page five times and kept falling asleep, she laughed at herself, finished the last bit of scotch, put the book aside, and switched off the light. The pillows were comfortable, and Ruth was asleep a second after her head hit the pillow.

A floor above Ruth, someone else was knocking on a door with a similar peace offering, though it was Qrow Branwen and he was holding a smaller bottle of peppermint schnapps. He knocked twice before the door opened. Much like Ruth Lionheart, Winter Schnee was in a bathrobe, her hair wet from a shower. She graced him with the same arctic glare he’d gotten on the flightline. “What the hell are you doing here?” She flinched. “You smell like a brewery that’s been bombed.”

Qrow knew that was a lie; he’d showered before he walked to the VOQ, and was no longer wearing the flight suit, just civilian clothes. “Thought I’d say hello. Start over from the beginning, Ice Queen.” He held up the schnapps like a waiter offering a rare bottle of wine to a wealthy patron.

Winter flinched at that, as well. “I don’t like schnapps. Especially peppermint.”

“Oh.” Qrow tucked the bottle under one arm and leaned against the doorjamb with the other. “You gonna invite me in, or we going to have this conversation in the hallway?”

Winter rolled her eyes. “Fine.” She opened the door enough for him to walk in. “Set the bottle over there. I’m sure you’ll drink it later.” She motioned at the TV stand. 

“Not sure what’s going on with you,” Qrow began, as he put the schnapps down, “but I didn’t realize I’d pissed you off at Signal. In fact, I…I…” His voice trailed off as he turned around. Winter’s bathrobe was on the floor around her feet. She wore nothing beneath it, and Qrow’s mouth went dry. Two steps of those long, magnificent legs brought her up to him, and she crushed her lips against his. He had to pry her off for a moment to get a breath of air. “Winter, what the—“

She licked his lips. “That was a show I put on for my sister and Ironwood. Did I fool you?”

“Yeah. I thought I pissed you off somehow.”

Winter laughed softly. “I am sorry. I just don’t want anyone to know about us.”

“You ashamed of me?”

“Yes.”

Qrow shrugged. “Guess I can’t blame you. I get the feeling Jimmy knows, after that phone call you got at Signal—“ He was cut off again as she kissed him again. “Damn, woman, let me breathe!”

“Of course,” she told him. Her fingers reached down and grabbed the zipper of his pants. “Because you’re going to need all the air you can get.” Winter licked _her_ lips very suggestively. Qrow gulped as she hooked her fingers into the waistband of pants and underwear and pulled them down. “Now make me scream, old man, because you won’t believe how I need this right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love me some Snowbird; what can I say?


	61. A Knife in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In war, there are always casualties--even in a war that no one thought they were fighting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this is a very depressing chapter.

_Building 91213 (Female Officers’ Quarters)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_10 April 2001_

Ruby Flight was sound asleep, despite Yang’s snoring. She lay on her top bunk bed, arms splayed open like she had been shot. Blake, for her part, was curled up under her covers. Weiss slept almost at attention, which surprised no one. Ruby could be found in any sleeping position, but currently she was on her stomach, arms clasped around her pillow like it was a teddy bear.

The phone rang. Each room was equipped with a landline, a holdover from the pre-cell phone age. Weiss opened one eye; Blake was awake instantly. Ruby and Yang did not so much as stir. The Faunus and the Schnee heiress both stared at the phone as if by doing so they could compel it not to ring again, but perversely it did. Weiss was closest, so she shuffled in her bed until it was within arm’s length, and picked it up. “Ruby Flight, Oberleutnant Schnee.” She unsuccessfully fought back a yawn. “Oh, Colonel Goodwitch. Good morning.” She waited. “Yes, right away. Hold a moment, please.” She set the phone down carefully on the table, got out of bed, winced at the cold floor, then turned and shook Ruby. There was no response, so Weiss shook harder.

“G’way,” Ruby mumbled.

“Get up,” Weiss commanded. “It’s Colonel Goodwitch. She wants to speak with you personally.”

“Tell ‘er to c’min…”

“She’s on the phone, you dolt.” Ruby reached out a hand. “The phone won’t reach. Get up.”

Ruby’s head came off the pillow, gave Weiss a dirty look, then finally got up. She dropped to the floor and grabbed the phone, still half asleep. “Yeah, Lieutenant Rose. ‘Sup.” She didn’t even try to fight down a yawn. “Uh huh. Formation at…now?” She glanced at the clock. “Colonel, it’s 0530! Why—“ Ruby’s eyes flew wide open. “ _What?”_

Her shout woke Yang up. “What the fuck, Ruby…”

“Y-Yes,” Ruby stammered. “Are you sure—“ Even the rest of Ruby Flight heard Goodwitch shouting “ _Of course I’m sure!”_ “Yes, ma’am. I’ll…I’ll let the rest of my flight know. Should I, um, tell Juniper? Pyrrha and Nora are right, they’re right…okay. Yes, ma’am.” They heard the line click off, and Ruby hung up as well. Then she staggered backwards and fell on Weiss’ bed. Weiss was about to say something, but she saw that her flight leader had gone pale, and her silver eyes began to fill with tears.

“Ruby? What’s wrong?” Blake was out of her bed in an instant, and Yang swung down from hers. “What’s wrong?” she repeated.

“It’s…oh, God…” Ruby covered her eyes with a hand and shuddered as tears ran down her cheeks. “It’s Ruth Lionheart,” she finally choked out. “She’s dead.”

Winter Schnee had been awoken from a very pleasant sleep next to Qrow by the sound of screams downstairs. They had gotten dressed quickly, but by the time they were down there, several Security Forces and a shaking maid were already present. Winter had gone into the room.

Winter had seen the face of death before—what was left of a pilot after hitting the ground at 600 miles an hour, the ejections that went wrong and broke necks. She had seen the bloated dead after a failed White Fang raid on a Schnee GmbH warehouse. A medic nodded at her as she came into the room.

Ruth Lionheart did not even look dead. She looked asleep, even a faint smile on her lips, as if at any moment she was going to sit up and laugh at them for falling for a prank. Winter put the back of her hand on the Faunus’ forehead and drew it back quickly; the skin was dry and cold. There was no reason to check for a pulse.

“Please don’t touch the body, ma’am,” the medic said. “We don’t know what happened to her yet.”

“Of course. My apologies.”

She stood a silent vigil by the body with the medic until Ozpin arrived half an hour later, for once looking sleep-tousled, his uniform obviously put on hastily. “Goodwitch called me,” he said. “What’s happened?”

It was the medic who answered. “Captain Ozpin, the VOQ maid came by around 0445 and found Flying Officer Lionheart’s room door open. She came in to check, tried to wake her—usually Miss Lionheart goes for a jog about this time—and when she didn’t respond, the maid called SF.”

Ozpin looked down on the body. He leaned on his cane, and to Winter, he suddenly seemed very old. “Ah, God,” he said quietly. “You poor woman. And Leonardo.” He lifted a hand to his eyes, visibly fought for control of himself, and finally asked, “Cause of death? Do you know yet?”

The medic shrugged. “It doesn’t look like she was attacked or anything, sir. Near as I can tell, she just died in her sleep.” He paused. “Anyway, sir…I don’t think she suffered. For what it’s worth.” The medic was nervous; this was not his usual line of work. 

“She had been drinking, sir.” Winter had noticed the bottle of scotch and the cup. “But there’s only a third of it gone.”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am—“ the medic began.

“I know, Sergeant,” Winter interrupted. “Not enough to kill. I’m familiar with the symptoms of alcohol poisoning.”

“And Ruth drank far more than that at the party.” Ozpin nodded at the medic. “You’re dismissed, Sergeant. Thank you.” The medic came to attention for a moment and left, leaving Ozpin and Winter alone. “Where’s Qrow?” Ozpin asked.

Winter did not bother to lie. “He was with me all night. He returned to his room.”

“I’m not suspecting him, Winter. I just wanted to make sure he was all right.” He pretended not to notice the slight blush on her cheeks. 

“Do you think she was murdered?” Winter said quietly. The question had hung in the air since she had walked into Ruth’s room; she supposed she was getting paranoid.

Ozpin was silent for a moment. “There would be no reason to. Ruth had no enemies; she wasn’t privy to any secret information. I would expect there to be signs of a struggle, but there isn’t any that I can see.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Were it you, or me, or even certain members of Ruby Flight, then I might suspect it, but not Lionheart. Perhaps that family is just cursed.” A long sigh. “And now I have to call her father. Poor man. He loved his daughter so.” 

One of the Security Forces airmen stuck his head into the room. “Sir, OSI is here.” 

“Very well.” Beacon, like all USAF bases, had a small Office of Special Investigations branch permanently assigned to it; since Beacon was a Joint Base with the Navy, there were also one or two members of the more well-known Naval Criminal Investigative Service. The investigation was going to be a jurisdictional nightmare, since Ruth had been a citizen of the United Kingdom as well. 

“Captain Ozpin?” Unlike the Security Forces, OSI agents tended to wear civilian clothes. The OSI man was tall, prematurely balding, but every inch the professional.

“Lieutenant Friedman.” 

Friedman looked down at the body. “Damn,” he breathed. Ruth Lionheart had been very well known around the base. 

“Lieutenant,” Ozpin said in a low voice, “I hate sounding callous, but I don’t want her leaving this base until a thorough autopsy is done.”

“Absolutely, sir.” 

“Colonel, let’s leave the Lieutenant to his work.” Winter nodded and followed Ozpin out the door. He had to start making phone calls. The first would be to Leonardo Lionheart in the UK. The second would be to Rissa Arashikaze at CIA.

_Hangar One_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_10 April 2001_

The pilots filed into the hangar quickly, exhausted, sleepy, and in shock. There were no seats; they simply milled around, and the news quickly spread. Glynda Goodwitch could hear gasps of surprise, curses, and crying. She took a deep breath. She had done this before, but it never got easier. 

She came out from behind her F-22. Goodwitch had taken the time to shower and dress in her formal blues. Blake saw her and shouted “Attention on deck!” Instantly the pilots came to attention.

Goodwitch stopped before them. “At ease.” She put her hands behind her back. “There is no easy way to say this, so I will just say it. Flying Officer Ruth Lionheart was found dead this morning, about an hour ago. We do not have any information on cause of death, but to avoid any wild speculation, it is believed that she died of natural causes.” She surveyed the front row of pilots, which had ended up being Ruby Flight and Creamer Flight. Cinder Fall was pale, clearly stunned; tears ran down Emerald’s face, her lips trembling; Mercury Black was stoic. As Goodwitch came to Ruby, the lieutenant was trying to be brave, but she was crying as well, held up only by Yang, who wasn’t in better shape. Weiss and Blake were standing at ease, but Goodwitch could tell they too were just barely hanging on. 

Goodwitch sighed. She felt sorrow, but it was muted; she really had done this too many times. “All flying is cancelled today. We will have a memorial service this afternoon; uniform is formal dress. I realize that is sudden, but unfortunately we must get back to the exercise as soon as possible. I need volunteers for the flypast; Creamer Flight…no longer has enough.” A sob escaped Emerald’s lips before she bit it back.

Jaune raised his hand. “Colonel, Juniper Flight would like to volunteer.”

“Very well. Thank you, Lieutenant Arc. You and your flight meet me in the auditorium so we can plan for it.” She paused. “Ruth Lionheart was a great person. She was a fine officer and superb pilot. She will be missed, to say the least.” Another pause. “Dismissed.” There was nothing more to say. Goodwitch walked over to Creamer Flight—what was left of it. As she passed, Ruby finally fell to her knees, Yang with her, both hugging each other, crying inconsolably. She watched for a moment as Weiss walked over to Neptune and hugged him; the Navy pilot was sitting down, utterly in shock. “You have my condolences,” Goodwitch told them. Cinder nodded blankly; Emerald was rubbing her eyes. Mercury still said nothing, but she noticed he was pale as well. As she turned to leave the hangar, she saw the young man turn and run out of the hangar, shrugging off anyone who tried to stop him. Goodwitch shook her head, understanding the need to be alone. Cinder and Emerald soon followed. No one tried to stop them; Creamer Flight needed to mourn among themselves.

Cinder and Emerald walked back to the VOQ in silence. They saw the ambulance pulling away. “ _Vaya con Dios,”_ Emerald whispered as it went past them, and wiped new tears from her face. 

The VOQ was deserted, but Mercury was waiting at Cinder’s door. She unlocked it and let him and Emerald go in first. Once it was closed, Cinder opened the closet and unlocked her suitcase. Hands behind her back, she walked towards the two remaining members of Creamer Flight. Mercury stood against the wall; Emerald sat on Cinder’s bed.

“What the hell did you do?” she asked Mercury, her voice low.

Emerald looked from Cinder to Mercury, and her expression became one of horror as she realized what had happened. “Oh my God,” she said. “You killed her, Mercury. You _killed_ her.”

Mercury gave a shrug. “No point in trying to deny it.”

Emerald was on her feet. “ _Chingada madre!”_ she shouted. Her hands came up, her eyes filled with tears and rage. 

“Keep your voice down,” Cinder ordered. She returned her attention to Mercury. “Why?”

“She knew,” Mercury said. “She was going to tell Ozpin.”

“Tell him what?” Emerald wanted to know.

Cinder took a breath. “You stupid bastard. We _had_ this conversation. She wasn’t going to tell Ozpin anything.”

“You don’t know that,” Mercury told her. “We couldn’t risk her endangering the plan.”

Cinder said nothing for a moment. Then she moved like a striking snake. The pistol came out from behind her back and hit Mercury in the forehead with the barrel. He fell to the carpet, more surprised than hurt, but then Cinder was standing over him, the pistol leveled at his head. “You fucking _idiot._ You’ve done more to endanger the plan in the last twelve hours than Ruth ever did. What do you think Ozpin is going to do when he figures out Lionheart was murdered?”

“He won’t,” Mercury insisted. “He’ll never figure it out. No one will.”

“You’d better start explaining,” Cinder threatened.

“You’re not going to shoot me and have another murder to explain,” Mercury snapped.

“I’ll discuss it with Ozpin and let your corpse know how it turns out,” Cinder hissed. “Start talking. Now.”

Mercury got up to his elbows. “I bought her a bottle of Johnny Walker Red at the package store. When I got back to the dorm, I poured enough sleeping pills in there to put an ox to sleep. Even accounting for the alcohol dissolving some of it, there was enough to put her out like a light. Not to kill her, just knock her out.”

“How did you get into her room?” Emerald, the former thief, knew it wasn’t all that easy to break into the dorm rooms. She could do it in a few minutes, but Mercury wasn’t a thief; he was an assassin.

“Lionheart was nice enough to leave her door open for me. Seems she thought I was going to come in and bang her later. I walked in about one in the morning after everyone was in bed, and put a pillow over her face. She didn’t struggle.”

Cinder stared at him. “You smothered her.”

Mercury nodded. “And before you ask, Cinder, I know what I’m doing. My pa taught me that much, the son of a bitch. I checked the pillow to see if she had bit into it. She hadn’t. I checked her mouth to see if she bit her tongue. She didn’t. And yes, I wore gloves—surgical gloves I bought off base. I’ll dispose of them off base as soon as I can.” He glanced at Emerald, who was looking like she wanted to commit homicide herself. “She didn’t suffer, if you’re worried about that. To everyone who looks, she just died in her sleep, probably from mixing sleeping pills and booze. Happens to people all the time.”

Cinder held the pistol on him a moment longer, then stepped back. “All right, Mercury. All right. It sounds like you at least used your head. It was still remarkably fucking stupid and completely unnecessary, and if I didn’t need you, I’d shoot you in the fucking head and claim you admitted to the murder and I killed you in revenge. If you fuck up again, I’ll go to OSI—and you’ll find me a _lot_ fucking harder to kill than some stupid, naïve Faunus.” She kept the pistol at her side. “One more time, Mercury. Just once. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yeah. Can I get up?” At her nod, he got to his feet. “I did the right thing, Cinder.”

“Go back to your room,” Cinder ordered. “At the memorial today, you’d better act appropriately somber—maybe throw some tears in there, you inhuman piece of shit. And if your idiot little stunt causes Leonardo to blow our cover, I swear I will make sure I kill you first.” She motioned with the pistol. “Get the fuck out of here before I change my mind and kill your stupid ass anyway.” Mercury did as he was told. At no point had Cinder raised her voice, which made it all the more effective.

After he was gone, Cinder set the pistol on the nightstand and sat on the bed across from Emerald. “Of all the idiot fucking things,” she said.

“Why?” Emerald asked.

“Ruth found out that I gunned down Fox Alasdair and Velvet Scarlatina during the battle last week. My fault; I forgot about the stupid gun camera. But I had her convinced that it was a friendly fire accident. Ruth destroyed the gun film, but that simple asshole killed her anyway, because he’s shit-scared that Ozpin’s going to find us out. And now he’s made that more likely.”

“You convinced Ruth?”

“I know I did, Emerald.” Cinder sighed. “I didn’t like that insipid little bitch, but we needed her, if for no other reason to control her father.”

Emerald swallowed in fear. “Do you think he’ll…”

“He shouldn’t. I’ll call him here in a moment. We’ll stick with the story that Ruth just died of natural causes. It will devastate Leonardo, but I’ll lie and tell him we had nothing to do with it. Since he’s more afraid of Salem than he is of anything else, he _should_ go along with it. I hope.” Cinder slammed a fist on the bed. “God _damn_ that fucking Mercury. We never should’ve been saddled with that psychopath. We should’ve had Hazel. Christ, Tyrian might even be an improvement.”

Cinder levered herself off the bed. “All right. We might as well get ready for the service. I’m sure there’s going to be people coming by to make their condolences. I have to put on a good act.” She walked towards the closet.

“You don’t care?” Emerald said it before she thought about it.

Cinder stopped. “I regret its stupidity. Remember what we’re here for, Emerald.”

There was a threat in Cinder’s voice, and Emerald picked up on it. “I won’t betray you, Cinder. I owe you too much for that.”

Cinder waved her towards the door. “You’re the only one on this whole damned team I trust, Emerald.” The former thief nodded as she opened the door. “Nice work on the tears in front of Goodwitch. That will help.”

“Thanks,” Emerald said, and left. In the hallway, she wasn’t sure what angered her more: Ruth Lionheart’s murder, or the fact that Cinder thought her tears weren’t genuine.

The dais was moved out onto one of the runways. No chairs were set up, because it would not be a long service. The funeral would be held back in England for Ruth, once the autopsy was finished. Ozpin had also forbidden any cameras; the news crews had learned of the death of one of the Vytal Flag pilots and had wanted to film the memorial, but Ozpin had turned that down, hard. When one of the reporters complained, Ozpin told him it was as much for the media’s protection as the pilots’—a reporter clicking away with a camera or offering commentary during a memorial would probably end in broken cameras and broken teeth. 

Ruby got there early. She was in her dress blue uniform, which she hated wearing—mainly because it always made her look like a little girl playing dress up. Naturally, Yang made the uniform look great. Blake’s Marine uniform was also, as usual, crisp and sharp, and Weiss’ Luftwaffe uniform was all silver braid. 

The other reason was that it seemed like the only time she ever wore the uniform was to funerals.

Ruby only remembered dimly Summer Rose’s funeral. There was no coffin, because there was no body. There had been a service of some kind, and she remembered the warmth of Yang’s hand in hers. Yang hadn’t really understood either: it was just that Mom was there and then she wasn’t, and never would be again. They still didn’t know exactly what happened: officially, Summer Rose was listed as Missing in Action, but so many Huntsmen and Huntresses were.

The other pilots soon arrived. Ruby took a deep breath and walked over to Cinder Fall. “Cinder?” She didn’t know if it was appropriate to use the older woman’s first name instead of rank, but she did it anyway. “I’m sorry about Ruth.”

“So am I.” Ruby was surprised: Cinder seemed more angry than sad. Of course, everyone reacted to grief differently. Then her expression softened a little, and she smiled down at Ruby; Cinder topped her by six inches. “Thanks for saying that, Ruby. It’s appreciated.”

Ruby gave her a nod, then went over to say hello to Emerald and Mercury. The Spanish girl was composed, but Ruby could tell that she had been crying. Mercury was shaking, and when she tried to talk to him, he just covered his eyes and shook his head. Unsure of what else to do, she gave both of them a hug and rejoined Ruby Flight as Ozpin came through the crowd, in his dress whites. He stopped as Ruby walked back. “Lieutenant, you’d mentioned to Colonel Goodwitch earlier about wanting to say a few words?”

“If that would be all right.” Ruby had gone from Hangar One to Goodwitch’s office soon after the announcement.

“It would be welcome. Thank you.”

A small table was set in front of the dais, and a picture of Ruth was placed on it. There had been a base-wide scramble to find something, but it had been Velvet who had provided one. It was a shot of Ruth standing next to her old Jaguar, a grin on her face, flashing the V-for-Victory sign, the day she had “shot down” Nora. Seeing the picture made Ruby feel better: she could hear the Cockney accent: _What’s this lot? Why’s everyone sad? Have a wake, you sods!_

Ozpin got up to the dais and said a few words, praising Ruth’s bravery in the Battle of La Crosse, then invited anyone who wished to say a few words. Velvet stood up first, and told some funny stories about how she and Ruth had trouble communicating, despite both being from the United Kingdom—Velvet’s parents were originally from Australia, whereas Ruth’s mother was East End London. 

Coco went up next. Her speech was halting at first, trying to find the words in a language she wasn’t native to, but she soon warmed up and told a hilarious story about Ruth trying to speak Arabic and ending up asking how old someone’s camel was when trying to ask Coco her birthday. Nobody knew if it was true or not, but fighter pilot stories were none the worse for embellishment. Then it was Scarlet David, who told the story of Ruth’s marriage proposal. Now everyone was laughing; Ruby caught even a small smile on Cinder’s face.

Finally, it was Ruby’s turn. She walked up the stairs to the dais and stood behind the podium. As she looked out over the pilots, every word she had practiced vanished from her brain. Near panic seized her. Then she took a breath, closed her eyes for a second, and winged it.   
“We’re all going to miss Ruth,” Ruby said. “But if she was standing here, she’d say ‘Steady on, Ruby Rose, don’t bore them to tears!’” It was a fair approximation of Ruth’s accent. Everyone laughed because it was true. 

“Ruth lived her life at full throttle. Her mom got killed at an airshow, but she joined the RAF anyway. Yeah, she could be annoying. Yeah, she was a bit, um, forward with her affections. But she loved all of us, for real. And when we needed her, she was there.” Ruby, with an effort, kept her eyes dry. “Ruth was here, doing the thing she loved the most. When it’s our time to go to the big O-Club in the sky, I hope we can all say that. And Ruth…” Ruby could not stop her lower lip from trembling. “…save me a seat.” She could say no more, and left the dais.

Ozpin returned. “I will add no more but to paraphrase the famous General George Patton: we should not mourn that such people like Ruth Lionheart died. We should be thankful that she lived.” He turned at the sound of jet engines. Ruby saw Juniper Flight approaching at about two thousand feet, and immediately her throat tightened. She was going to burst into tears; there was no stopping it. 

Juniper Flight came over the runway, but before they reached the crowd, Pyrrha’s F-16 suddenly broke formation and climbed hard into the blue sky, engine roaring. She was soon gone from sight, leaving a gap in Juniper’s formation as they came over. Known as the missing man formation, it was traditional at fighter pilot funerals, a way of saying farewell; the gap showed that a friend had “flown west,” as the pilot slang went, the climb a soul going to Fighter Pilot Heaven, where the beer was always free and the missions were always fun.

Ruby buried her face in her hands, tears running through them. It got worse every time, from the first missing man formation she had seen, for her own mother. She had been to too many others since. She was hardly alone: Yang was crying too, with the same memories. Weiss was trying to hold it together and not succeeding very well. Blake’s face did not move, but the tears ran down her cheeks silently. 

Slowly, the pilots filed off as the noise of Juniper’s passing faded. And suddenly, Ruby thought, it wasn’t fun anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've never seen a missing man formation, it is simultaneously one of the most moving, sad, and magnificent sights in the world.


	62. Always On My Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Cinder plots with Watts, Nora and Ruby have the disagreeable duty of clearing out Ruth Lionheart's things. 
> 
> But Ruth may have left behind some important clues to her murder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath. The pieces continue to move on the board.

_Building 111415 (Visiting Officer's Quarters)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_10 May 2001_

Cinder returned alone to her room. She placed the _Do Not Disturb_ sign on her door; she needed to think, and she’d had enough of people expressing their condolences. She took off the dress uniform, took a shower, then lay down on her bed in a towel to think.

Losing Ruth Lionheart was regrettable and dangerous, and Cinder was surprised to find herself missing the Cockney Faunus some. Nonetheless, what was done was done. The worst part had been calling Leonardo to tell him his daughter—his last living family member—was dead. Cinder did feel sorry for the old Faunus, but again, it was not her fault. She had obliquely warned Leonardo not to reconsider their “deal,” and was confident that he wouldn’t. At the funeral, faking sorrow had come easy to her; Cinder Fall had long ago learned to disguise her emotions, to become a completely different person on the outside. What had been done to her had ensured that. 

The phone on the nightstand abruptly rang. Cinder stared at it murderously for a moment, then picked it up. “Hello,” she said, not bothering to disguise her annoyance.

“Cinder? Greetings. It’s W.”

She sat up. W was Arthur Watts; even if his initial wasn’t a prearranged codename, his accent was unmistakeable. “Hello, W. It’s been awhile.”

“We’ve been on a long journey, unfortunately. I’m on holiday with Will Fetters at Cousin Hector’s. Still close to where you are, though, if you want us to visit.” Cinder translated that. Watts was still with the White Fang; the Cousin Hector she would have to figure out later. If they were still close enough to “visit,” that was good news.

“Not a good idea at the moment,” she replied. “I’m swamped here with the exercise and all. You can watch it on TV, you know. We’ll be on tomorrow morning.”

“Our reception isn’t so good here, but we’ll try to get it on the telly. How are things with your flight?”

“Not so good. Ruth Lionheart died this morning. In her sleep.”

There was a pause. “I’m very sorry to hear that. Will you be recalled?” Watts sounded concerned. This was not part of the plan. 

“No, the show goes on. Might even get a chance to use one of Uncle Art’s tricks tomorrow. You remember the old switcheroo he used to do when we were kids?”

Watts laughed. That was code as well. Before they had all left Europe, he had made some alterations to Emerald’s Mirage. She hadn’t had an opportunity to use them yet—it wouldn’t have helped against the GRIMM, and Cinder had not wanted to show too much of Creamer Flight’s hand against Juniper Flight. “I’m definitely going to have to see if we can tune in. Any other tidbits you’d like to share?”

“We’re going to have some Creamer in the Coffee tomorrow.” Cinder doubted anyone was listening in, but in case they were, whoever they were would likely pick up the easy reference: Creamer Flight was fighting Coffee Flight the next day. In cracking a ridiculously easy breach of operational security, they wouldn’t think to look for the real breaches. “Hey,” she said, as if suddenly thinking of something, “how did that chess game go you were telling me about? That big one against Uncle James. I had money riding on that one.”

“All right. I used the Scandinavian Defense.” 

“Nice.” Cinder nodded to herself: the Black Queen was still in play. Uncle James was code for Ironwood. Again, it was simple, and they were hoping that simple would pass by for people looking for the complicated. 

“You really should play again.”

“Maybe,” Cinder said. “Next time we play for pennies, though. Too rich for my blood otherwise.” 

“Play for pennies?” Watts chuckled. “If you want. Awfully small stakes, though.”

“No such thing, W.” That was the next phase of the plan, one added hurriedly weeks ago, as a distraction from the White Fang assault. The attack was on hold, but Cinder had let Watts know she was going to use the distraction plan, which would probably pay even higher dividends than before. “You know me. I always play to win.” Cinder paused. “How’s my doggie doing?” She referred to her F-22.

“Fine, fine,” Watts said. “That little Italian girl has been taking her for walks.” _Neo,_ Cinder thought. _She better not wreck my plane._ “She wanted to ask you how Alex was doing.”

“Alex is fine, but he’s tied up with work. Not sure when he’s going to get out there to see you.” Alex was their codeword for Roman Torchwick. “I understand he’s here for the exercise, though. If you make it out, I’ll make sure we get together again.”

“Ah, that’s good. The poor thing has been worried sick for her Alex.” Watts yawned; Cinder wasn’t sure if it was faked or not. “Damned sorry to hear about poor Ruth. I’ll talk to Mother about sending her father something as soon as I can, poor man.”

“He’d appreciate that.”

“I’ll ring off here, Cinder. Take care of yourself.”

“I always do, W. See you soon.” She hung up, then leaned back on her pillows. Unseen by anyone, Cinder Fall smiled.

A few hours later, Ruby and Nora trudged down the hallway of the VOQ. Both had returned to the barracks, only to be notified by Goodwitch that they were required to clean out Ruth Lionheart’s personal effects. It was a surprise, but by regulations, they had to do it. When a pilot began flying combat, they were required to fill out a form in case they were killed. It would list where any personal effects should be sent, and who would be required to do the packing. The pilot could name anyone to do it, so long as they were military and they were still alive. Ruby knew Yang’s form listed her sister and General Luna, the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. If something happened to Yang, Luna would be required by law to fly to Beacon and help Ruby clean out Yang’s locker. 

“This is really weird,” Ruby said. “Why us? Usually you pick your flight to clean out your stuff.”

“I know,” Nora agreed. “I’ve got Ren and Pyr for my stuff.” She smiled in spite of herself. “If something happens to me, Pyrrha’s in for the shock of her life. How about you?”

“Yang and Weiss.” Ruby shrugged. “I got nothing that’s shocking.”

“You don’t?” They reached Ruth’s dorm room. “No dirty books or bad stuff on your computer?”

“Nope. We’ve got dial-up. Even if I wanted to look at that stuff, it would take three hours to download.”

“That’s true.” Nora knocked on the door. A man in a suit answered. “Hi,” she greeted him. “I’m Lieutenant Valkyrie; that’s Lieutenant Rose. We’re here to get Ruth’s stuff.”

“Oh. Hold on.” The man closed the door. They heard muffled voices, then the door opened again. “Yeah, sure, come on in. We’re all done here.” He left the door open, and the two pilots walked in. 

Ruth’s room was clean; the bed was made. There were two men in the room; both wore suits, but one walked over and put out a hand. “Lieutenant Valkyrie? Lieutenant Friedman, OSI.” They shook hands. “We’re all done here, so you ladies can get started. The only things we took out were things that could be used in an investigation.”

“Investigation?” Ruby asked incredulously. “But Ruth died of natural causes, right?”

“It’s routine, Lieutenant.”

“Oh.” Ruby looked at the bed. “Can we…see her?”

“Once the autopsy’s done, we’ll be sending her body on to her dad in the UK. Maybe then.” He looked uncomfortable. “We’re gonna miss her. We over in OSI don’t get to mix much with you pilots, but even we knew Ruth.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Lieutenant.” He waved to them, took the other man—who had never been introduced—and left the room. Nora closed the door behind them. She and Ruby shared a look. “Well,” Nora said with a sigh, “no point in putting it off.”

They went into the bathroom first. Her toothbrush was gone—probably OSI had taken it—but the other toiletries were present, along with some feminine hygiene products. Nora tossed those into a paper bag; they could be divvied up among the female pilots. 

While Nora handled that, Ruby opened the refrigerator. If there was a typical fighter pilot fridge, Ruth’s was it. There were some scattered ketchup packets, two frozen burritos guaranteed to cause an explosive combination of diarrhea and acid reflux, and two bottles of Coors. Given that Ruth was always disparaging American beer, Ruby was surprised at that. “Hey, Nora. You want a beer?”

“Hell yes, I want a beer.” Nora walked back into the main room. “We need to give Ruth a proper wake.”

Ruby tossed Nora one of the beers, then pulled out her handy Swiss Army knife, and popped open the top on her own. Nora simply ripped hers off. They took a long drink. Ruby still didn’t like beer much, and this wasn’t going to change her opinion, but she was thirsty and this was for Ruth. In that spirit, she raised the bottle. “To Ruth.”

“To Ruth,” Nora answered. They took another drink in silence, then it was back to work.

The dressers were next—clothes, underclothes, some books—mostly manga, Ruby saw. They threw all that into boxes to be sent home. Under one stack of underthings Ruby pulled out a long, black cylinder. “What’s this?” She thumbed a switch under the base, and it vibrated in her hand. “Oh.”

Nora looked up and whistled. “Damn. That’s bigger than mine.” She pointed at Ruby. “You’d better keep that. I don’t think her papa needs to see that Ruth owned a vibrator.”

“What do I do with it?”

“Pitch it. Unless you wanted to keep it or something. Ruth probably would get a laugh out of that.” Nora wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

“Er, no.” Ruby stuck it under some towels that would replace Ruby’s tattered ones. Someone would acquire it. “Besides, I don’t think…I don’t think it would fit.”

Nora laughed. She tossed more clothes into another box, but heard a thump when she did. She turned and reached into the box, rummaged around, and found a package inside Ruth’s peacoat. “Oh geez. This is probably porn; I’d better take it out.” She turned over the package and was startled. It was addressed to her. She held it up for Ruby. “Check this out. This is for me.”

“You going to open it?”

Nora weighed the package. She’d kept it together so far, but if she came upon anything personal, that would not last long. “I’ll open it later.” She put it on a stack of things she was keeping for Juniper Flight.

A half hour and the rest of the beer later, they were done. Ruth Lionheart’s things filled two boxes for shipping home, while the donated items filled two bags. Ruby looked around sadly. It wasn’t much for a life, and when they left, Ruth Lionheart would have disappeared from Beacon as if she was never there, alive only in memories. Her body and her boxes would be sent home, and eventually someone in the RAF would collect her Jaguar. Ruby had noticed that, oddly, there were no pictures of Ruth’s family. 

“Well,” she sighed, “let’s go.” They tossed the beers into the garbage, took one last look, and left the room in darkness.

Unknown to Ruby and Nora, Weiss was also in the VOQ, upstairs from Ruth’s former room, and down the hall from Cinder. She was also enjoying a beer, but it was Lowenbrau, and it was with her sister. Weiss took a drink and smiled. “Now that’s good. The Americans just do not know how to make beer.”

Winter nodded. As a rule, neither she nor Weiss drank—not after seeing what alcohol did to their mother—but occasionally they enjoyed a beer or a glass of wine. German beer was hard to get at Beacon, as one would have to drive to Wisconsin Dells for it, so Weiss indulged herself. Winter leaned back against the cushions of her bed, and tried to avoid thinking about who had been there the night before, and what they had been doing. She wasn’t sure how Weiss would react—with revulsion, or with merciless teasing. That brought on another drink. 

“So what did you find out from home?” Weiss said. Winter had been wondering when it would be asked. Her younger sister had been dancing around the subject for half an hour.

“It’s not Father paying off the White Fang. It’s Mother.” Winter saw no reason to sugarcoat it.

“What?” Weiss exclaimed. “ _Mother?”_

“Yes.” Both Schnees took a drink. _Careful,_ Winter warned herself. “She’s doing it to protect us. Specifically Whitley.”

Weiss bit back what she was going to say, which was that Willow Schnee was doing a bang-up job so far—after all, Weiss had been nearly killed by the White Fang at least once since coming to Beacon. Whitley, however, was attending school in Great Britain, and even under an assumed name, he was vulnerable. Menagerie was far away from Eton, but not too far. “And she believes the White Fang will abide by that?”

“Yes. I think, deep down, that she knows the White Fang are playing her for a fool. But our mother desperately needs something to hold onto.” Winter took one last drag at the beer, then threw it into the trash. There were four other bottles, but she did not get another. “Which is why I’ll be returning to Germany tomorrow.”

“So soon!” Weiss cold not keep the sadness off her face. “I was hoping you’d be here a little longer.”

“I came back to make sure the IRIS missiles were delivered, and to deliver my report to Captain Ozpin.” Inwardly, Winter smiled. _And to see Qrow._ “As per our agreement, Weiss, he needs to be kept in the loop.”

“Then the CIA knows,” Weiss sighed. “Ozpin will tell them about Mother.”

“Yes. He’s going to brief one of their representatives personally tomorrow, here at Beacon.”

“What will they do?”

“I don’t know. I suspect nothing,” Winter said, “but I don’t know.” She saw her sister staring at her feet, hands clasped around the beer bottle. “They need to know, Weiss. We can’t even trust the BND with this, because I don’t know who’s reliable there.” She referred to the _Bundesnachrichtendienst,_ the German Federal Intelligence Service. “Ironically, the Americans are more trustworthy now than our own people.” 

“I never should have done that research,” Weiss said quietly.

“Yes, you have. I’m glad you did. It’s better to know.” Winter decided to change the subject. “Do you know who you’re going up against in the 2V2 competition?”

“It’s supposed to be secret, but it’s the worst kept secret on the base.” Weiss smiled. “Yang and I will be up against Funky Flight.” She said the last in English, which caused Winter to chuckle.

“Funky Flight?”

“Three Americans—Flynt Coal of the USAF, flying a F-15, and Neon Katt and Kobalt Ivori, both US Navy, flying a F-14. It’s going to be a difficult fight.” Weiss had been gaming it out in her head since she had learned it from Emerald. 

Winter raised an eyebrow. “Neon Katt?”

“That’s her name.”

“With a name like that, you hardly need a callsign.” Winter glanced at the clock. “I very much hate to break this off, Weiss, but I must get some sleep.” 

“It’s only 9 o’clock.”

“You know I’m not going to sleep on that C-130. I doubt I’ll sleep on the C-141 from Charleston to Laage, either.” In reality, Winter wanted to get Weiss out of the VOQ well before ten. She loved her sister, but Qrow was supposed to come by at ten. She suppressed a shiver of anticipation. Qrow might drink too much, might be flippant to a fault, but if there was a way to please a woman that he didn’t know, Winter hadn’t discovered it yet. “Laage is on the other side of Germany from Herrenscheimsee—“ Winter defiantly used the old name for Schnee Manor “—but it’s close enough that I can see Mother or Whitley if they need me.”

“Whitley doesn’t need anything but his video games,” Weiss snapped.

Winter got up off the bed, went over, and embraced Weiss. “Yes, he does, Weiss. He may not realize it now, or may not want to admit it. But he needs us, and we need him. He’s our brother. And Mother…”

“Mother is Mother,” Weiss answered, returning the hug. “I still love her. That’s the sad part of all this—her money probably financed the purchase of that F-5 that almost killed me, but I can’t hate her for it, Winter.” They separated. “I wish I could love Father. I still can’t believe he’s cut me off.”

Winter shook her head. “That was his choice, Weiss. Not ours.” She shrugged. “You could call him. Given the proper amount of…” She almost said _begging,_ but while that was accurate enough, there was no reason to anger her sister further. “…filial piety, he would reinstate your funds.”

Weiss was silent for a moment. “No,” she answered simply.

“Good,” Winter replied. “He cut me off as well when I joined the Luftwaffe. Learning to live on a salary was difficult, but I think I’m the better person for it.” She handed her sister the carton of beer. “Share this with your flight, and be safe. That’s a good group of people you have there.” Winter laughed a little. “Now how is _that_ for irony? The Belladonnas’ daughter, being your friend. Perhaps there’s hope for us after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if the part about filling out forms to clear out someone's stuff if they die is still done, or if anyone can be listed on the form. It was during WWII: my grandfather had his bunkmate (who was considered mildly psychotic) and Admiral William Halsey. By law, Halsey would've been required to come to my grandfather's carrier and help clean out his stuff. It more than likely is still true that a pilot's stuff is cleaned out before the personal effects are sent home, so nothing bad, compromising or nasty ends up landing on his or her parents' desk-or worse, a spouse's.
> 
> Please leave a review. I love hearing from people.


	63. The Last Leaves of Autumn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rissa Arashikaze of the CIA arrives to talk to Ozpin, but she wants to see Amber.
> 
> Who is Amber, why is she so important...and why is she still conscious?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting to pull the curtain back on the Maidens a little bit.

_Building 71414 (Commander’s Office, JRB Beacon)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_11 May 2001_

Ozpin rose as Rissa Arashikaze, Deputy Director for Intelligence for the Central Intelligence Agency, walked into his office. He got up to get around his desk, but she anticipated him, walked briskly to him, and to his surprise, hugged him. “Well, now,” he smiled.

“We go back too far,” she explained. Rissa motioned him to his chair and took the seat across from it. “Your call was a bit of a surprise. We were planning to meet, but I was going to fly in tomorrow.”

“I’ll address that first. I’m sorry,” he said, “did you want some coffee?”

“Oh, no. I had three cups this morning and on the flight. Thank you, though.” She laughed and shook her head. “You still make that Navy style, don’t you?”

“Once a sailor, always a sailor.” He toasted her with his coffee cup. Ozpin had known Rissa Arashikaze for a very long time, and she never seemed to change—a remarkably short woman, barely five feet tall, who had risen through the ranks of the CIA through sheer competence and complete ruthlessness. He also knew her petite form and affable personality had a dark side: someone who, in her day, had been an assassin herself. 

“Oh hell,” Rissa said, got up and poured herself a cup. She took a sip as she leaned on the sideboard, and smiled. “That’s good.” She took another sip. “Okay, Oz. Let’s have it.”

“One of my pilots died yesterday—Ruth Lionheart.”

“Air Commodore Lionheart’s daughter?” she asked. At his nod, she sighed. “Poor man. What did she die of?”

“The autopsy is being done today. I’d like you to be there.”

Rissa shrugged. “I’m not a doctor, Oz. And the CIA isn’t supposed to operate on US soil outside the Dead Zones.”

“No, but our base doctors are not trained to look for more than the obvious foul play.” He steepled his fingers. “And since when have you cared about jurisdiction?”

“True,” she admitted. “It’s a wonder I haven’t been arrested. You think she was murdered?”

It was Ozpin’s turn to shrug. “Probably not. I seem to have a tendency to jump at shadows these days. However, Ruth Lionheart was a very healthy young female Faunus. People like her don’t often just die in their sleep.” He held up a report. “Results of her last physical. She was in, for all intents and purposes, perfect health.”

Rissa cradled the coffee in her hands. “Why would anyone want to kill her?”

Ozpin was silent. “I honestly don’t know. She wasn’t privy to any sort of secret knowledge. Her family doesn’t have any enemies that I know of, and they were never involved with the White Fang. So I’m probably just being paranoid.”

She took a drink. “Okay, Oz. I’ll be there.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I want something in return,” she said.

“All right.”

“I want to see Amber.”

“Now?”

Rissa nodded. “If at all possible.”

He took a deep breath. “Very well.” Ozpin got to his feet, and Rissa followed him. 

They left base headquarters, and crossed Arryn Avenue to the base hospital. Once inside, they walked down a corridor, moving aside for doctors and nurses. Occasionally, both would surreptitiously look behind them, to make sure they were not being followed; Ozpin noticed that Rissa had done this when she walked into his office, and smiled. _Once a field agent, always a field agent._ They turned down another, much less used corridor, and entered a doorway marked QUARANTINE-GOWNS, MASKS AND GLOVES REQUIRED. In the small antechamber that separated the room, they did as instructed, putting on sterile gowns, gloves, masks, and booties over their shoes. Then they walked into the room…where there was nothing. Rissa gave Ozpin a quizzical look, and he turned and almost casually put his hand on the wall. A hidden fingerprint reader ran over his index finger, and a door marked as a closet opened. The interior indeed looked like a closet, filled with cleaning supplies, but as they walked in and shut the door, Ozpin took a card from his wallet, pushed a gown aside, and ran it through a reader. There was a hiss as another set of doors closed in front of them, and then the elevator descended.

“Interesting,” Rissa commented. “How many people have access?”

“Glynda, myself, and the chief doctor here at the hospital—Dr. Thomas. He’s trustworthy.”

She gave a short nod, and then the elevator lurched to a stop. “We’re two floors down,” Ozpin explained. “This actually used to be the freight elevator, and this sub-basement is where the boilers and emergency batteries are located. We walled off this section from the rest of the basement, and it draws power directly from the hospital. There is an uplink here, and one in my office.”

“One in your office?” Rissa asked. “That seems risky.”

“I’m the only one who knows the password. The uplink computer is separate from my office computer, and has no connection to the internet. If we ever had to use the Fall Maiden, I doubt I would have time to get down here.”

Two sets of doors opened, admitting them to a room bare of paint, with just drywall. There were machines along the wall, and the inevitable beeping noises of an intensive care unit. A curtained bed took up the center of the room. Ozpin walked forward, pulling up his mask, and drew the curtain back. Another, transparent plastic curtain still walled off the patient. Rissa came forward and looked down on Amber Tardor. 

She lay on a diagnostic bed, an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. She was attractive, with short brown hair and a pleasant face. Below the neck, however, was horror. Tanned skin gave way to burns, her naked upper chest reddened as if by a bad sunburn, but deepening to dark red before her lower half was hidden by the covers. Her left arm was gone below the elbow, ending in a stump of angry red skin; beneath the covers, Rissa could see both legs were gone, one at mid-thigh, the other below the knee. Around her remaining wrist was a large, watchlike device that listed her heart rate and blood pressure.

“I’d heard she was badly injured,” the CIA woman said, “but not how bad.”

“She was shot down over the Nevada Dead Zone,” Ozpin told her. “Qrow Branwen was nearby, heard her engaged with air pirates of unknown origin. By the time he got there, she was already down—she crashlanded her F-16 on the desert floor next to a deserted highway. AWACS warned him that there were a large number of GRIMM headed in his direction, but they never did pick up Amber’s attacker for more than a few seconds—we believe it was some sort of stealth aircraft. Amber never did get off a contact report, only that she was being engaged by long-range missile shots and could not get a lock on her attacker.” 

“That could be anything,” Rissa said, “but that red F-22 Goodwitch engaged over Ohio and the one Captain Long fought over Minnesota would fit the bill.”

“It would.” Ozpin touched the plastic curtain. “Qrow was able to land his modified F-117 on the road, and found Amber. She had managed to crawl out of the wreckage—she had apparently been too low to eject—but had been badly injured, as you can see. He loaded her into his Nighthawk and flew to Hill Air Force Base. Her legs were crushed in the crash, and her right arm was so badly burned that both legs and the arm had to be amputated. She had third degree burns over her pelvis, but the doctors were able to operate successfully and give her skin grafts.” He picked up her medical chart. “It’s what you don’t see that is worse. Her chest was crushed by the instrument panel, collapsing her left lung and actually shifting her heart to the right side of her chest. Still, the doctors were able to save her life—temporarily.”

“Why not permanently?”

Ozpin sighed. “Her liver and kidneys were also badly injured. The medical staff believed they might recover, but her kidneys failed soon after her transfer here.” He pointed to the tubes coming out of her side, leading to a dialysis machine. “Amber’s body has simply taken too much damage. These machines are the only things keeping her alive right now.”

“Is she ever conscious?”

As if summoned, Amber’s eyes opened slowly, and looked around, unfocused. Rissa could see the whites had turned yellow, which meant jaundice was setting in. “Who’s there?” she whispered, barely audible.

“It’s Ozpin, Amber.” He reached through the plastic curtain and took her remaining hand in his. She squeezed it, but there was no strength in it.

“Oh…hello, Oz.” She smiled and blinked. “Who’s that…with you? She’s…kind of cute.”

Rissa smiled. “I’m a friend,” she told Amber.

“Must be a pretty…high-ranking friend…to see me.” She turned over to look at the wall. “Is the sun out?”

Ozpin let go of Amber, walked around Rissa, and switched on a large monitor. It flickered to life, and showed a view of the flightline. Amber’s smile got larger. “Oh…that’s nice. Can…you leave that on?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks.” Amber stared at the monitor. “Don’t…let me stop…your story.” She had to pause between words to get her breath. “Heard…it before.” 

Rissa dropped her voice so only Ozpin could hear. “How long?” she asked.

Amber had heard her. With effort, she turned back to Rissa, the tired smile still on her face. “Oh…not too much…longer.” Then she turned back to watch the monitor again.

Ozpin sadly nodded. “She’s right. She could go into systemic failure at any time. It could be tonight; it could be three months from now.”

“Kinda…fucking doubt that,” Amber put in.

“Do you have a replacement?” Rissa obviously hated to say it in front of Amber, but it had to be asked.

“I do.”

That got Amber’s attention. Weakly, she reached out her hand. “Oz…who?”

He reached in and patted her hand. “Don’t worry about that, Amber.”

“Let me…meet them…before I go.”

“I will. Now get some rest.”

“Okay…music?”

“Certainly.” Ozpin went over to a radio and switched it on. Soft, classical music filled the room. Amber’s eyes narrowed. “Not…that…soft…shit,” she growled.

Ozpin chuckled and switched the station. Metallica blared from the radio now. Amber gave a thumbs-up, then threw a small wave to Rissa before the hand fell back to the bed. She continued to stare at the monitor as they left as a single tear made its way down her cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amber's injuries are based loosely on Howard Hughes' after the crash of the XF-11. He not only survived that, but made a full recovery. Amber probably won't be as lucky...


	64. She Blinded Me With Science

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coffee Flight, led by Coco Adel, goes up against Mercury and Emerald of Creamer Flight. But for some reason, Coco's not detecting Emerald's aircraft.
> 
> And if that wasn't bad enough, Rissa Arashikaze makes a disturbing discovery during Ruth Lionheart's autopsy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hardest thing about this story is writing the air combat scenes. I watch an episode, grab what I can, and then map it out. Hopefully it looks good when translated on the written page.

_Yooper Air Combat Range_

_Upper Michigan Peninsula, United States of Canada_

_11 May 2001_

It was a beautiful day for air combat, Coco Adel thought, then squirmed a bit in her seat to try and get comfortable. Though the Royal Air Force had been able to rush out another Jaguar for Ruth Lionheart—a Jaguar now without a pilot—the Republic of Iraq’s Air Force was not quite as well equipped. Although it had been ten years since Saddam Hussein had been deposed, making it much easier to get aircraft, they still didn’t have the resources. Coco’s Mirage F.1--her beloved _Gianduja,_ named for the Italian chocolate she loved—was still some weeks away from being repaired, so she was borrowing Jaune Arc’s Mirage 2000. A generation newer than her Mirage, she was enjoying flying it. It was far more responsive to her touch; too responsive, she thought, which could be a problem in a dogfight. 

She glanced to her right. Yatsuhachi Daichi in his F-2A was out there, both assuming an expanded section. They would be visible on radar as two aircraft, but Coco liked the flexibility of the fighting pair. She missed having Fox and Velvet in their Tornado, which could feed radar contacts to them while she and Yatsuhachi kept the radars off. In any case, this was a 2V2 fight, but Coco still felt a bit naked. 

“Coco, contact, two bandits at eleven o’clock low.”

“Roger. Lock ‘em up.” It wasn’t terribly sporting if both of them killed Creamer Flight in less than ten seconds, but Coco wasn’t interested in giving the TV reporters a show. She’d nearly punched one of them the day before, who got too close to Ruth’s memorial. The radar quickly locked on, faster than her older Mirage; that part she liked. “I’ve got the bandit on the left.”

Yatsuhachi clicked the mike twice in response. A second passed, and an audible beep in her helmet earphones told her Coco had a lock. _Sucks to be you, Creamer,_ she thought, and pulled the trigger. “Coco, Fox Three!” Her wingman repeated it a second later. The datapod that substituted for the actual missile fed its targeting information back to Beacon.

“Tally-ho, eleven o’clock low,” Yatsuhachi called. “One F-16, one Mirage. They’re breaking left.” His voice was calm, but it would take an extinction level event for Yatsuhachi to get rattled. 

“Roger, I got them!” She was waiting for Range Control’s call, but her hopes were dashed a half-second later. “Coffee, Range Control, missile shots trashed.” _Damn,_ she thought morosely. Coco followed the two specks that were Creamer Flight, as they not only broke hard to avoid the shot, but descended and disappeared behind a ridge. The hard deck had been waived for this flight as well in the interest of realism, and at the request of Creamer. Coco, who loved to work down low, had no objections.

“Yatsu, float left, you have the lead.” She put her Mirage into a shallow dive, and saw the F-2 make a hard left break. She gave it a moment, then snapped the stick hard left to follow. To her surprise, the Mirage 2000 did a snap roll that threw her off for a moment, a precious second she had to waste getting back ahead of her aircraft. She got back on track, and saw Yatsuhachi’s blue-painted F-2, now pulling out low—and from behind the ridge popped out the gray Mirage F.1 of Emerald Sustrai. “Yatsu, break right!” she called. “Emerald’s pulling lead on you!”

Yatsuhachi threw the F-2 to the right, using his better turning performance to throw off Emerald’s shot as she called out a hasty, and futile, Fox Two. The Mirage turned into the F-2, and then reversed as they entered a horizontal scissors. Coco kept her eyes on them, but also looked for Mercury’s F-16. Her eye caught movement and her radar warning reciever shrilled for her attention as the F-16 suddenly shot out from behind another ridge and climbed straight at her. She hated to do it, because it meant taking her eyes off her wingman, but Coco broke hard into Mercury, ruining his shot. He shot past on her right side. “Yatsu, engaging Mercury!” she puffed out as she went hard right to follow, the G-suit squeezing her. 

“Emerald, Fox Two!” was her only answer.

“Range Control. Yatsu’s a mort.”

“ _Ayreh feek!”_ Coco snapped, a rather vile Arabic curse. Mercury was now breaking right, but she popped her speedbrakes and chopped the throttle a bit, keeping him out in front, settling into perfect parameters for a Sidewinder shot. Coco retracted the speedbrakes and accelerated. She checked her mirrors for a second, then the RWR display beneath her heads-up display; both showed clear. Her gunsight settled on the F-16 as Mercury lit his afterburner and climbed. “Big mistake,” Coco growled, because now the Viper was perfectly outlined against a blue sky, with the Sidewinder sniffing nothing but its exhaust. The practice Sidewinder growled and her finger caressed the trigger.

“Emerald, Fox Three on the Mirage!”

_What?_ Coco’s mind shouted as she instinctively went into a break, but she had hesitated a half-second, long enough to check a RWR display that was still clear. 

“Range Control; Coco’s a mort. Creamer wins.”

“Shit.” Coco leveled out and rocked her wings as the other Mirage flew past. She leveled out as Creamer Flight disappeared in the distance. Yatsuhachi joined up for the flight back. “Well, that sucked,” she groaned. 

“ _Shigata ga nai,”_ Yatsuhachi radioed back. Nothing to be done. Coco sighed and looked at the clock on the instrument panel. Twenty-two seconds. Not unusual for a dogfight, but she was getting tired of losing. “Hey, Yatsu,” she called out. “Go to Channel Three.” She switched frequencies, off the one Range Control used and one that was discreet enough the controllers wouldn’t listen in. “I have an odd request.”

“Sure.”

“Drop back into trail and lock me up with your radar. Like you were going to pop me with an active.”

There was silence for a moment, but then Yatsuhachi replied, “Roger,” and did as he was asked. She watched the RWR display, and the expected strobe came on, along with the aural warning. “Thanks,” she told him. “Rejoin and go back to Channel One.” She went back to their formal channel. “Range Control, Coco. Are you sure about that last missile shot?”

The controller paused. “Roger that, Coco. Clean shot.”

_Something’s wrong here._

They landed at Beacon fifteen long minutes later. After they’d taxied in and parked, Jaune placed the ladder and came up as she raised the canopy. “You got my plane shot down,” he said, smiling to let her know it was kidding. 

“Something’s wrong with this fucking airplane,” Coco snarled back. She left the power on and gestured angrily for Jaune’s crew chief, a tall Frenchman. Jaune swung off the ladder as the chief clambered up, and winced as Coco let him have it. The crew chief wasn’t having any of it, and both of them swapped French insults as Coco powered off the Mirage. They were still at it as both climbed down. Jaune put his hands up defensively. “Easy, easy!” he exclaimed. “What’s the problem here?”

“The problem,” Coco snapped, “is that there’s something wrong with your damned airplane!” She slapped the side of the Mirage angrily. “Emerald locked me up and killed my ass with a radar shot, and the fucking RWR never even showed it! Yatsu locked onto me on our way back and it worked just fucking fine! _Bordel de merde!”_ Coco was proud of the fact that she could curse fluently in four languages—English, Arabic, French and Kurdish.

“There is nothing wrong with this airplane!” the crew chief shot back. “I and my crew check it quite thoroughly before we let _anyone_ take off in it. I guarantee that there’s nothing wrong with that equipment!”

“Then you explain it, _ya kalb!”_ Technically, an officer was not supposed to cuss out an enlisted man, but she was banking that the Frenchman didn’t know she’d just called him a dog.

She was wrong. He stripped off his gloves, threw them at Coco’s feet like he was challenging her to a duel, and climbed up the ladder, jumping into the seat. He switched on the internal power and began running a diagnostic. Jaune and Coco waited on the side of the hardstand, joined by the enormous Yatsuhachi; Jaune always wondered how the biggest Japanese person he’d ever seen fit into the F-2. They heard the Mirage power up, power down, then power up again before the crew chief shut it off. He climbed back down the ladder. He went up to Coco, towering over her. “Captain Adel. I ran a diagnostic twice on the RWR. It’s working perfectly. There is nothing wrong with _Crocea Mors,_ and quite frankly, I don’t appreciate you inferring that I would send you up with a bad aircraft. With all due respect, Captain Adel, _ta gueule.”_ Coco was startled at that: the chief had just told her to shut the fuck up. He stormed off, around the aircraft.

Coco’s fists balled, but Yatsuhachi put a hand on her shoulder. “Coco, stop it,” he said.

“He insulted me!”

“He had a right to. If he’d said you were a poor pilot, would you not have reacted the same?”

Coco stared after the chief, who was now opening an inspection panel and motioning the rest of the ground crew over. She slowly let out a breath. Yatsuhachi was right: a pilot blaming the maintenance crew for the pilot’s own faults was one of the worst things a fighter pilot could do. She took off her helmet, handed it to Jaune, and walked over to the maintenance men; Jaune followed. “Chief,” she said. He said nothing, but glanced back. “I’m sorry. I was out of line.”

The crew chief stopped his work, and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” It was both apology and acknowledgement.

Honor satisfied on both sides, Coco retrieved her helmet from Jaune and put it under her arm. “I don’t understand,” Jaune said.

“Emerald shot me down with a radar missile shot,” she explained. “And it never showed up on my RWR. I didn’t even see her.” She looked at Yatsuhachi. “Did she do the same thing to you?”

Yatsuhachi laughed. “No, unfortunately not. She forced me out front by going idle and boards—“ he used the terminology for going to near idle thrust and throwing out the speedbrakes “—and nailing me with a Sidewinder. She was below and behind when she shot you down.”

“Explains why I didn’t pick her up visually,” Coco mused. She motioned them to walk with her. “I want to go back to the auditorium, Jaune,” she said, “because somehow Emerald locked onto me with her radar and I didn’t even know it—and neither did your Mirage.”

The doctor performing the autopsy on Ruth Lionheart was a civilian one from Madison; neither the USAF nor the US Navy had coroners at all bases. By the time Rissa Arashikaze came to the morgue, he had already done most of the work—not that she knew much about autopsies, though killing large numbers of people had left her with a lot of knowledge about bodies and how they worked, or, at least, how they stopped working.

The doctor, a middle-aged man with the unlikely name of Butcher—“I’ve heard all the jokes,” he had told Rissa when they met—consulted his chart. “I think you’ve wasted your time coming here, Miss Arashikaze,” he said. “Miss Lionheart here was in excellent health. In fact, I’d say that she’s the healthiest dead person I’ve ever met.”

Rissa tried to ignore the fact that this cute young Faunus that lay naked on the slab in front of her had most of her internal organs in bags on the long metal tray next to her. She still looked like she was smiling, like the whole thing was a colossal joke that everyone wasn’t in on yet. “That’s why I’m here, Doctor. Healthy people just don’t die.”

“Sometimes they do. Something we’ve missed, maybe. I haven’t looked at her brain yet. An undiagnosed tumor, or a blood clot.”

Rissa felt a little sick at that; she didn’t want to be there when that happened. She looked at the chart, and the death certificate. “Let me go by the numbers here, Doc. Make sure _I’m_ not missing anything. Official cause of death?” It was still blank on the certificate.

“That’s just it. I don’t know yet. She died in her sleep.” He stood over the body, hands on hips, as if angry that Ruth was not telling him how she died.

“Then let’s just say, for argument’s sake—and so I’m not wasting my time here—that she was murdered. Never mind the why, just the how.”

Butcher circled the slab, slowly. “Captain Ozpin thought that might be the case, so I tested her blood. There were barbituates in her system, but no more than what you’d find with sleeping pills. And though she had been drinking, her blood alcohol content was nowhere near drunk. In fact, I doubt she’d even had enough to give her a buzz. Yes, you can die from mixing sleeping pills with alcohol, but usually it’s in much higher doses of both.”

“Any other toxins?”

“Not a one. Didn’t see any injection sites, either.”

“Nothing under her fingernails?”

“Nothing. Not even dirt. She looks to have kept herself pretty clean.”

“Would you mind if I looked?”

Butcher motioned for Rissa to do so, and she went to work. She checked under the fingernails for puncture sites, but there was nothing. She checked every orifice below the neck, as much as she wished she didn’t have to, but there was nothing there, either. She lifted the left arm and looked closely at the armpit. “What are you doing that for?” Butcher asked.

“Old KGB trick. Insert a metal rod under the armpit while the subject is sleeping—especially if they’re drugged. The rod goes straight through into the heart, and the victim bleeds out into the torso. No puncture wounds, though.” Rissa gently let the arm down. “There wasn’t any evidence of sexual activity, was there?”

“None.”

That left out everything below the neck. Next Rissa checked the ears, which were clean, then went through the hair. It took half an hour before she was satisfied. She looked up the nose. When there was nothing there either, it left the mouth. “Any bite marks on the tongue?” she asked.

“Not that I could see.”

_Damn,_ Rissa thought, _maybe Oz and I really are just jumping at shadows._ She levered open the mouth and used a flashlight to look inside, checking the tongue, the back of the mouth, and the sides. She was about to give up when she saw it. “Doc, look at this.”

He bent over. With a gloved hand, she pointed at Ruth Lionheart’s gums. There, faint but present, was bruising. “I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Butcher said. He peeled back her lips, and there was paleness there, paleness that wouldn’t be there on a healthy young Faunus. 

“Did they bring down the pillows that were on her bed?” Rissa asked. She carefully checked the body’s throat; there were no ligature marks.

“Yeah, right here.” He walked over and grabbed one of the pillows, in its evidence bag. Rissa put on fresh gloves, tore open the bag, and looked at the pillow. Then she placed it over Ruth’s face, careful not to let the fabric actually touch the corpse. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a magnifying glass?” she asked.

Butcher smiled, reached under the tray, and held one up. “I’m a bit old fashioned.”

Rissa smiled back, took the magnifying glass, and carefully scanned the pillow. “I think I got it.” She handed the glass to him, carefully keeping one finger where she wanted him to look. “What’s that look like to you? It’s faint, but it’s there.”

He looked. It took him a moment, but then he slowly nodded. “Bite marks. They wouldn’t be seen by the naked eye, but they’re there.” He set down the magnifying glass, stared at Rissa for a moment, then walked over to his briefcase. He pulled out a fifth of Tennessee whiskey. “I think we need this.” She agreed. Both took a swig, straight from the bottle. 

“Your conclusions, Doctor?” Rissa asked. She already knew the answer, but she wanted it to be official.

“Paleness on the gums, bruising on the gums, faint but present bite marks on the pillow.” Butcher shook his head sadly at the corpse. “You poor, poor girl. You were suffocated to death.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've done far too much research on how to curse in French and Arabic for this chapter. The autopsy scenes I admit I borrowed from Clive Cussler on; I was afraid to look up "murder by suffocation" on the internet. The NSA is probably following me as it is.


	65. Always Something There to Remind Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before Yang and Weiss are due to face Funky Flight--who are more than happy to talk some smack to Ruby Flight--they spend some time with their uncle Qrow, who has some things to tell them about the greatest flight to ever hunt GRIMM: Strike Flight.

_Building 91213 (Female Officers’ Quarters)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_11 April 2001_

Qrow Branwen positioned himself carefully behind the corner. He could hear the two guards talking to each other, and waited patiently for one of them to move on. Then he drew his knife, stalked through the doorway, crept up behind the first guard, and…

…promptly got shot for his trouble as the second guard hadn’t quite moved away yet. “Turn around! Turn around!” Ruby shouted in alarm.

“Don’t try and stab him!” Yang yelled. “He’s got a Schmeisser! He’s going to light your ass up! Grab some health!”

“Where is it?” Qrow asked frantically.

“On the wall behind you—“ Then the view changed, as Qrow’s character, the Allied secret agent, was mowed down by the two Germans. “Dammit,” he sighed. “I’m never going to get past this level. Damn Krauts. Never did like that bunch.” _With one notable exception,_ he thought to himself. He was already missing Winter Schnee.

“Uncle Qrow,” Ruby said, “that’s the _first_ level.”

“Whatever.” He set down the keyboard. “I’m more of a N64 guy anyway. I’d kick all your asses on _Goldeneye._ ”

“Ugh,” Yang groaned. Qrow wasn’t lying; he was deadly at that game. “Too bad we don’t have a good air combat simulator.”

“Too much like work,” Qrow said, and leaned back against Blake’s bed. He and his two nieces were the only ones in the room; Weiss and Blake were both working out at the gym. “What’s the legal age in Wisconsin?” he asked, pulling out his flask.

“21,” Ruby replied.

“Good. I’m old enough.” He uncorked the flask and took a drink. “Yang, you want a sip? You’re old enough. None for you, Ruby.”

“Nah, I’m good.” Yang was leaning against Weiss’ bed. She’d sampled Qrow’s flask before, and it was what she figured antifreeze tasted like. Ruby, sitting on her bed, didn’t press the issue, for the same reasons, and figured now was not the time to tell Qrow she’d gotten horribly drunk a few weeks before.

“So how did your last mission go?” Ruby asked. “If you can tell us.”

“Can’t tell you the particulars, but I can tell you this one part. It’s pretty scary.” The two girls leaned forward as Qrow took another drink, made sure the door was closed, and dropped his voice. “So there I was. I’d flown up to Alaska and stopped at Eielson. It’s the Wild West up there—cut off from us by the Pacific Coast Dead Zones and the mountains from the rest of the Remnant, and with Siberia right across the Bering. GRIMM central up there.” Another drink. “So I walk into this bar in Fairbanks. Lots of lowlifes in there. A place where they drink gasoline and eat polar bears for fun.” He motioned them a bit closer. Ruby hopped off her bed and sat down next to Yang. “And then…then it happened. I couldn’t believe it. Hell, I _still_ can’t believe it.”

Yang nodded, hanging on every word; Ruby had clasped her hands in front of her. “What…what was it?” she stammered.

“The bar girl. She bent over. Her dress hid nothing, girls. Nothing. And her panties didn’t hide much either. I could see right down Main Street.” Qrow grinned at them. 

Yang and Ruby both covered their eyes. “Hit him,” Yang said. Ruby dutifully grabbed one of Weiss’ pillows and threw it at her uncle. He caught it in midair. “You’re a sick bastard, Uncle Qrow.”

“Yeah, but you guys think I’m cool anyway.” He looked at the flask, and put it away. 

“Moving on,” Ruby sighed, “how much trouble are you in?”

“What, with Ozpin?” Qrow waved it off. “None. Oz and I go way back. Hell, he was here when I attended Vytal Flag for the first time.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“Kind of. Part of my job is checking in with higher authority sometimes, and I needed to keep Ironwood and Ozpin in the loop.” He was tempted to tell them, strongly so, about the horrendous losses the Huntsmen and Huntresses of American and NATO forces had been taking. He reconsidered. It was very much classified information, on a need to know basis, and neither Yang nor Ruby needed to know. Not right now. “We’re all pros. Oz and Ironwood rag on me sometimes, but there’s no friction on the operating level.”

“We’re pros too,” Ruby insisted, and for a moment, Qrow didn’t see his nieces as the grown women they were now, but as the children they once were. 

“Oh?” he asked with a mocking smile. He needed to get rid of that memory in a hurry, before he started crying or something. Thinking of Yang brought memories of Raven. Thinking of Ruby brought memories of Summer.

“What, you don’t watch the news?” Yang pointed to herself and her sister with weighty importance. “We sort of saved the day over La Crosse last week. Rubes helped blow up a train and wiped out the White Fang, and I made ace.”

Qrow laughed. “Yeah? You want a medal or a chest to pin it on? Ruby almost blew herself up with that train and you almost bought the farm against a F-22.” As soon as Qrow said the words, he regretted them. Not because it wasn’t the truth, but because it was an abrupt reminder—to him—of his nieces’ mortality. They had followed their parents, and him, into a very dangerous job. He’d already buried too many friends, and too many friends that had been practically family.

Still, it needed to be said, he supposed. Yang and Ruby were good—damned good—but they needed to be reminded that they were pointed rather than anointed. They were getting cocky. “I’ll grant you that you did a hell of a job,” Qrow continued, “but if you think the White Fang’s been wiped out, you’re wrong. You killed a bunch of them, but they’re like a fucking hydra. And we never did find out their leaders.” He caught something cross Yang’s face. She knew something, but Qrow wasn’t going to press her. It was doubtful she knew anything he didn’t already.

They were looking down, now, he thought, so it was time to pick them up again. Qrow was aware that the girls tended to worship him; why, he had no idea. They didn’t need a father figure; Taiyang had been a great father to them both. “All right,” he said, “I’ll stop with the red-assing. I’m really impressed with what you people have done with Ruby Flight. Top scoring flight at Vytal Flag ain’t nothing to be ashamed of.” He winked. “Of course, you still got a ways before you equal the _best_ flight ever to come out of the exercise.” Qrow pulled out his wallet and brought out the photograph, looking at it for a long moment before handing it to Yang. “Strike Flight. Simple name, but best that ever was, best that ever will be.”

They’d never seen the photograph before. Taiyang Xiao Long and Qrow were both kneeling on one knee in the foreground, their helmets in front of them; they looked piratical, with “bulletproof” mustaches—Tai with a thick blond one, Qrow with a thin black one. Behind them, leaning on their heads, grinned Summer Rose and Raven Branwen—Summer behind Tai, Raven behind Qrow. Summer’s russet hair was trimmed to regulation length, just above her shoulders; Raven’s was far out of regulation. Behind them was Tai and Qrow’s F-4E, nose and gunport festooned with a sharkmouth; just barely visible to the left and right of the Phantom was Summer’s F-16 and Raven’s F-15. Back home at Patch, there were several pictures of Summer in her dress uniform and Taiyang in his, but Qrow and Raven were notoriously camera shy. Yang ran her thumb over Raven’s image. 

Qrow nodded. “Figured it was high time you knew what my sister—your mother—looked like, Yang.” He knew Tai had destroyed every picture he had of Raven, after she’d abandoned him and baby Yang. Even now, Tai rarely spoke of her, and never around his daughters.

Yang wondered if she should tell her uncle she’d met her mother. Ruby remained silent: she knew about Raven now, but it was Yang’s secret, not hers. She handed the picture back to Qrow; now, she thought, was not the time. “Nah, you can keep it,” Qrow said. “I’ve got another copy.” He stared at his flask. “What Raven did wasn’t right, Yang. Believe me, I’ve talked to her about it. But she…I think she was afraid she’d be a bad mother, that she wasn’t good enough.”

“She was right.” Yang’s voice was flat and emotionless, but there was no disguising the bitterness in it. 

“Don’t hate her, Yang,” Qrow told her.

“I don’t hate her, Uncle Qrow. I’m just really disappointed in her.” Yang shrugged. “Like I told Blake: Summer Rose was my real mother. She treated me like I was her own.”

Things had gotten very awkward, and Qrow knew it. He got to his feet. “Well, I’m getting too old for video games. Think I’ll head for my rack.” He scratched Zwei behind the ears; the corgi had perversely climbed onto Blake’s bed. “Just remember you guys have a ways to go. No need to rush it. And when Vytal Flag’s over, there’s still your career to worry about…and wars to fight.” He grinned at them to show them he was still proud of them, still loved them. “But you’re gonna do just fine. You got good genes.” He threw them a half-assed salute and headed for the door. Yang waved absently at him, lost in her thoughts.

Ruby jumped up and ran to meet Qrow in the hallway. “Uncle Qrow,” she said in a low voice, “please don’t be mad at Yang. I think she’s just…got some, well, issues with Raven.”

“She has a right to be pissed,” Qrow replied. “Let me guess. They met.”

Ruby’s eyes went wide. “How did you know?”

“Just a feeling. That and Raven flies a prototype aircraft she stole, the prototype for your friend Penny’s aircraft. It’s called the Night Raven, and it’s been spotted over the Midwest. Visually—it’s radar proof. It has some kind of weird computer that captures radar beams and scatters them to hell and gone. Your radar won’t even show that it’s there. I bet she landed somewhere near here and infiltrated the base. She’s heard that Yang was looking for her.” Qrow stared towards Ruby Flight’s room and shook his head. “Shit, I bet that went pear-shaped in a hurry.”

“Sure as hell did. Yang told her to go to hell. And what she said about Mom—about Summer Rose? She threw that in Raven’s face.”

Qrow sniffed. “Jesus. There’s not much that would make my sister lose it, but that would be it. I think she always resented the fact that Summer was a great mother to you two, and didn’t have to sacrifice her career for it.”

“Uncle Qrow…” Ruby didn’t want to ask the question that had popped into her head, but she had to. “Did Raven…kill my mother? She went down on a mission to the West, right?”

Qrow shook his head vehemently. “No. Raven may have resented your mother, but they were still friends. They were as close as sisters. Summer was heartbroken when Tai proposed to Raven, but she was still her maid of honor at the wedding. She wouldn’t have killed Summer. No way.” He hugged Ruby. “Take care of your sister, Yang. I think she’s down a bit right now, and not just because she met Raven. Whoever that F-22 pilot was that she ran into over Minnesota, she came close to getting her, and that’s always hard on a pilot, when you realize you’re not invincible anymore.” He kissed her hair. “Now go in there and kick her ass at a game.”

“You got it.” Ruby stood on tiptoe and kissed her uncle’s cheek, then walked back to the room. Qrow watched her leave, and felt his eyes get a bit moist. “You’d be damned proud of them, Short Stack,” he whispered. “Both of them.”

_Squadron Dispersal Area A_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_12 May 2001_

“This feels weird,” Ruby said. She stood next to the ladder attached to _Ember Celica._ “I feel like I should be up there with you guys.”

Yang finished strapping on her lifejacket. The fight was going to be back over the Yooper Range, but it could end up over water, and anything close to water required the lifejacket. “Pretty sure that would be cheating, Rubes.” She winked at her sister. “Though I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Ruby smiled. “Glad to see you’re feeling better.”

“Ahh…” Yang shrugged. “I just let that stupid picture get under my skin. No sweat. Slept good last night, and ready to kick the shit out of Funky Flight today. Tonight we’ll drink some beers, and maybe I’ll pick up someone at the bar.” Ruby was shocked at that, and Yang needled her some more. “C’mon, Ruby. I haven’t gotten laid in months! A girl’s got needs!” She raised her voice. “I mean, even Weiss’ tight ass is starting to look good!”

Weiss, who was walking by with Blake on the way to _Myrtenaster_ , graced Yang with a glacial stare. “I am _way_ out of your league.” She grabbed Blake and thrust her forward, as if the Faunus was a slab of meat for inspection. “Why not Blake?”

Yang considered Blake, rubbing her chin. “Maybe. The Bellabooty _is_ pretty awesome.” She turned to Ruby, who was red-faced. “Hey, don’t ask, don’t tell, Rubes.” She turned serious—somewhat. “You good to go, Weiss?”

“Of course.”

Blake folded her arms across her chest. “Remember what I told you about the F-14. Neon and Ivori are flying a D-model. It’s not going to have the same problems like the A, but the Ds haven’t been wired for AMRAAMs like my _Gambol Shroud._ Flynt is going to handle the long-range shots, but you know how the Tomcat is at close range. You know what to watch for, right? The wings?”

Yang nodded. “Yes, Blake. I _was_ paying attention when we talked about it this morning. Besides, I’ve waxed your butt up there, haven’t I?” She pointed to the sky.

“That’s unfortunately true, but I was also tired.” Blake wasn’t quite conceding the point. “And with Ivori in the backseat, that gives Neon another set of eyes to watch the sky. You’re not going to sneak up on them as easily as you did me that time.”

“Hey!” A new voice interrupted them, and Ruby Flight turned to see Flynt Coal, Neon Katt, and Kobalt Ivori: Funky Flight. Flynt and Ivori both looked like the typical fighter pilot—muscular, lean and handsome—and seemed cut from the same cloth, although Gray’s skin was pale and looked like he needed some sun, while Flynt’s was the color of coffee. Both even wore the same style of sunglasses. It was Neon, however, that would make people stop in their tracks. Not because she was attractive, which she was, or because she was a Faunus—her tail swished behind her, giving Ruby Flight an abrupt reminder of Ruth Lionheart. It was her hair: it was bright pink, tied into two pigtails, with two turquoise stripes dyed in it. To say it was not regulation was an understatement. Ruby’s eyes went to the patch on her flight suit and Ivori’s—VF-143, the infamous _World Famous Pukin’ Dogs,_ known to be a somewhat unconventional unit. Flynt, Ruby knew, was from the USAF base at New Orleans, hence the flight name; he did look as if he’d be comfortable in a French Quarter jazz club.

“Hey yourself!” Ruby waved back, and Funky Flight walked over, stopping about a pace from Ruby Flight. 

Flynt nodded towards Weiss. “You’re Weiss Schnee, right? The heiress.”

Weiss steeled herself; references to her family’s company were rarely complimentary, especially with a Faunus present. “I am,” she replied.

“My dad knew yours,” Flynt said. “Until Old Man Schnee ran his company out of business, of course.”

Weiss sighed inwardly, not sure if Flynt was actually angry or just trying to get under her skin. “I’m sorry to hear that.” She threw some penitence into her voice, which was not entirely faked.

“Yeah, right. Sure you are.”

Yang stepped forward. “Hey. Let’s save it for upstairs, huh?”

“Yang Xiao Long, right?” Neon popped her gum loudly.

Yang smiled back, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Let me guess. My dad screwed over your dad too?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that.” Neon’s eyes traveled up and down Yang’s body. “You must work out. Ever rollerblade?”

“Can’t say as I have.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Top-heavy as you are.” Neon put her hands below her own bust. Even under the flight gear, there wasn’t much there.

“At least I got boobs—“

“Okay!” Blake stepped forward. “This sounds like a great conversation, but everyone but Ruby and me is flying, so let’s get to that, huh?”

Neon turned her attention to Blake. “Oh look. Another glum Faunus, ashamed of what she is.” At the shocked look on the other girl’s face, Neon just smiled. “I can tell what you are, Belladonna. I can smell it.”

Blake smiled back, and scratched her cheek with a middle finger.

Flynt put a hand on Neon’s shoulder. “See you up there, Ruby Flight.” He steered her away—they’d all noticed how rigid her tail had gotten—and Kobalt followed them. _Sorry,_ he mouthed over his shoulder.

Weiss and Blake stared daggers in the departing Funky Flight’s direction. Yang laughed. “They were abused children. C’mon, Weiss, let’s show them who’s boss.” She hugged the former Schnee heiress.

“Right.” Weiss stalked off towards her Typhoon.

“Good luck,” Ruby said to Yang as the elder sister mounted the ladder. 

“Fuck ‘em,” Yang grinned and tossed her a Qrow-style salute. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The game Qrow is playing is "Return to Castle Wolfenstein," if you're curious. It actually did come out about this time in 2001. Note that Yang can't help quoting Top Gun, either...


	66. Over the Hills and Far Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yang and Weiss go up against Funky Flight. Just how far is Yang prepared to go to win?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty much an all air combat chapter this time.

_Yooper Air Combat Range_

_Upper Michigan Peninsula, United States of Canada_

_12 May 2001_

Yang was relaxed by the time she and Weiss reached the Yooper Range. As the “visitors,” Funky Flight had gotten their first, something she wondered was for the cameras. So far, the coverage of Vytal Flag hadn’t been very invasive; nothing like the Big Brother reality TV the pilots had wondered about when it first started. Yang wasn’t sure she was disappointed or not: she’d always wanted to be a movie star. This hop, however, they were carrying camera pods, and she was going to give the folks at home a good show. 

Weiss broke into her thoughts, which was just as well. “Yang, Weiss. I have a spike. They’re looking at us.”

“Roger. Mine just lit up as well.” Funky was going to start off with long-range missile shots. “Let’s lock ‘em up.” Weiss was eyeball and Yang was shooter, but now she switched on _Ember Celica’s_ radar, and instantly had a lock on two high-speed targets. 

“Neon, Fox Three!”

_What the hell?_ Yang thought. _We’re at sixty miles, too far for—_ “Oh shit!” Yang yelled. “Break now, Weiss! Neon’s using Phoenixes!” Yang broke hard left, dropping chaff, just like she would if it was a real situation. Weiss dived, but remained pointed at Funky Flight. 

“Range Control. That’s a miss, Neon.” Yang cursed, because she knew she’d fallen for a trick. Phoenixes were best against big targets, like bombers or Nevermores; against maneuvering targets, they were less effective. Neon had simulated firing anyway, knowing that Ruby Flight would break, just as a foxhound would bark to chase the foxes back into the guns of the hunters. Yang came right, knowing she and Weiss were now pulled out of formation, but now she’d hit Funky from the flank.

Weiss knew the same thing, but also trusted Yang to come back and support. She came out of the dive into a shallow climb. Her DUST system had not lost track of Funky, and she was locked onto Flynt Coal’s F-15. “Weiss, Fox Three!” She did a quick break left, then back onto her original course; Flynt was flying an older F-15A, and if the radar hadn’t been upgraded, she’d just broken lock. The older radars couldn’t keep up with a sudden break. She waited, but her display showed Flynt go into a hard dive, then DUST lost track; he’d gone behind a ridge. Weiss came around to meet him head on.

Out of the corner of one eye, she caught movement and a glimpse of an arrowhead shape. “Yang, Weiss, tally-ho Tomcat, at your three o’clock high.” The latter was a guess, but DUST was keeping track of her wingmate too, so it was an educated one.

_He’s behind that ridge,_ Weiss told herself, and a split-second later, she saw the F-15 climb hard. “DUST, IRIS!” she yelled, but Flynt rolled over and came straight at her, closing the distance in a second. She switched to guns and climbed to meet him. “Guns—“ she began, at the same time she heard Flynt say the same, but the closure rate was too much. They shot past each other, close enough to feel the buffeting of their jet wash, and Weiss grabbed altitude, then broke hard right, knowing Flynt was going to do the same.

Yang heard Weiss’ call, and picked up the F-14, wings raked back to close the range. _Well, well,_ she thought, _somebody likes to speed._ As the Tomcat rolled hard to get in behind her, Yang popped her speedbrake and throttled back a little. A slab of aluminum opened on the F-15’s spine, slowing her considerably. Neon flashed below her and stayed in the turn, forced out front and unable to slow down in time. Yang pulled the speedbrake back in. “Bad kitty,” she murmured, and swung in behind the Tomcat, settling in for an easy Sidewinder shot. The nose rotated up, then Neon dived, and Yang almost lazily turned to follow—only to be surprised when the F-14’s afterburners flared and she climbed away before Yang could react. 

“By all means, make it sporting,” Yang said, and climbed after the F-14, still trying to lock up for a Sidewinder shot. Neon’s F-14 came out of afterburner a good deal in front of her, then rolled over and dived again. Almost as soon as Yang followed, the Tomcat climbed again. “You dirty little bitch,” Yang snapped, and followed—only for the same thing to happen again. _Oh, I get it,_ Yang thought with a smile. _You’re baiting me. Same reason you were giving me shit about my tits on the ground. Trying to get into my head, get me frustrated so I’ll make a mistake. Nice try, kitty cat, but I ain’t playing your game._ As Neon began to climb again, Yang went into a shallow turn, not following the F-14. She kept an eye on the Tomcat, knowing Kobalt was watching her from the backseat. She saw the nose move, then the wings as Neon hammerheaded around, and slowed a bit more. _C’mon, kitty. Two can play the bait game._ As her opponent hurtled down at her, wings sweeping outwards as Neon slowed down to drop in behind her, Yang counted two, then suddenly broke hard left and slammed the throttle to the stops. _Ember Celica’s_ afterburners lit and pushed her back in the seat as the F-15 suddenly left the F-14 in the dust—Neon was out of speed and energy, and Yang had a precious few seconds to do something.

“Weiss, want to switch dance partners?” she called. “Coming in!”

“Don’t…mind…if I…do…” Weiss grunted against nine times the force of gravity. She had turned right, but Flynt had outmaneuvered her, going into a high-speed yoyo and rolling out behind her. Now she was pulling into an even tighter turn, an area where her Typhoon had the advantage: the high-G, close range knife fight. Flynt, however, was staying on her, throwing in rolls to keep from being forced out front, but unable to bring his nose to bear to use his guns.

Yang watched her airspeed blow past Mach 1, then Mach 1.5; below her, the ground shook with a sonic boom. She saw the Typhoon and Flynt’s F-15 in the tight spiral, came out of afterburner, rolled away from Weiss and Flynt, then shed airspeed in her own tight turn. A quick glance to her right, and she could see Neon’s F-14 charging in, but still out of the game for just a bit. “Weiss, drag him for me!”

Weiss had little choice in the matter: _Myrtenaster_ could actually take more than she could. Blackness crowded the edge of her vision, and even bearing down as hard as she could with the G-suit squeezing her, she was seconds from passing out. She went out of the turn and leveled out. 

Then Flynt did the unexpected. Instead of following Weiss for the easy gun kill, which would have left him a nice target for Yang, he also came out of the hard turn, but dived, dropping a shower of flares. Yang hesitated for a moment, not sure if her Sidewinder was growling at Flynt’s F-15 or flares, and a moment was all the other pilot needed. He came in under Weiss’ Typhoon, in her blind spot. “Flynt, guns, guns, guns on the Typhoon!”

“Range Control; Weiss is a mort.”

Weiss acknowledged her “death” by waggling her wings and going level, but now it was Flynt who became the target. He went past, climbing into the sky—and leaving the protection of his flare shower and ground clutter. Now there was no question who her Sidewinder was looking at. “Yang, Fox Two!”

“Flynt is a mort,” Range Control reported a second later.

_Now it’s 1V1,_ Yang thought, and she saw Neon’s F-14 swing in behind her, finally in position and bent on revenge. “Okay, bitch,” Yang grinned, “let’s see how bad you want this.”

And she dived. Her windscreen was filled with the forested ridges of the Upper Peninsula for a moment, then she leveled out, her altimeter showing less than five hundred feet above the ground. Yang grinned as she dodged a ridge, then rolled past a hill, stealing a quick glance into the mirrors set into the canopy bow. Neon and Kobalt were game: they were following her. Down this low, the F-14’s radar would be blanked out and the Sidewinders would be guiding on the reflected ground heat, which meant if Neon wanted the kill, she was going to have to do it with guns. 

Yang was laughing with the sheer thrill. This was no longer an exercise for her, and she cheated each turn tighter and tighter, to the point that trees were bending in her wake, the ground seemingly close enough to touch, death only a split-second wrong move away. Her heart was pounding, her G-suit contracting, but Yang barely felt it. This was life. This was what she lived for. Neon was still following her, but the Tomcat’s wings were cranked out, and Yang thought she saw a little hesitation. 

They hurtled into a shallow valley, and now Neon had a chance. She leveled out behind Yang, creeping into guns range, but Yang, her grin turning predatory, eased the throttle forward a little. Before her loomed the end of the valley, a low ridge that was getting closer by the second. If Neon was smart, she’d hold position and wait for Yang to either climb into the sky—to “kill” her the way she had Flynt—or to hit the ridge and die for real. Yang was betting that Neon was getting rattled by an opponent who was not flying as if this was merely an exercise. “Come on, Neon,” Yang chanted. “Show me what you got.”

Neon’s nerve broke. The F-14 suddenly climbed, headed for the safety of the sky. Yang pulled the stick into her lap and went into afterburner, enough to clear the ridge by a bare fifty feet, then came out of afterburner and fell in upside down, the Tomcat a spreadeagled target in her gunsight. A small touch of the speedbrake, and Yang had the shot she wanted. “Yang, Fox Two!”

“Neon’s a mort,” Range Control reported, sounding out of breath. “Ruby Flight wins. Jesus, Yang.”

Yang laughed as she rolled out, coming alongside the F-14. Neon turned to her, her features hidden behind oxygen mask and helmet. She gave the finger to Yang. Kobalt, however, held up both hands, cupping them as if he was holding two enormous balls. Yang waved, did a victory roll, and headed back for Beacon.

Ozpin sat at his desk, fingers steepled, trying to keep a smile off of his face. Ironwood was in another chair, and Rissa Arashikaze in a third. A fourth was for Glynda Goodwitch, but Glynda was on her feet, a foot from Yang Xiao Long, who stood at attention, still in her sweat-stained flight suit. “What the hell were you _thinking?”_ she shouted. “God Almighty! You were about two seconds away from buying the farm for real!” Yang was not a good poker player; there was a smirk on her face, no matter how much she tried not to. Glynda’s eyes were smoldering. “Wipe that smile off your face, Captain! What were you doing?”

“Winning,” Yang replied. 

Glynda’s hand came up, and for a second Yang thought she was about to get punched by a superior officer. “Don’t get smart with me, Long! I will bust your ass down to a slick-sleeve!” 

Ozpin decided to step in, because Yang was still smiling and Glynda was on the verge of doing violence to the other pilot. “Colonel.” Glynda stepped aside, still fuming, and Ozpin kept his voice even. “Captain Long. As I have said in the past, Vytal Flag rules exist for the safety of you and your team. True, there was no hard deck for this hop, but that’s because we trust our pilots not to do something foolish. Which you did. Were you doing this for the cameras, Miss Long?”

Yang shook her head. “No, sir.”

“Then why?”

“I wanted to win, sir.”

Ozpin sighed. “Which you did,” he said again. “All right. We won’t officially punish you, but you are confined to base for a few days. You know the Navy term ‘in hack,’ Captain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then consider yourself in hack. If this happens again, you will at the _least_ get a letter of reprimand. Assuming you’re alive to receive it. Am I clear?”

“Crystal, sir.” She was still smiling.

“Very well. Dismissed, Captain.”

“Sir.” Yang braced for a moment, executed a parade-ground about face, and marched from the room. 

“Captain.” It was Glynda.

Yang turned. “Yes, ma’am?” She was fairly certain that Glynda was not through getting a pound of flesh from her.

“Some of the best flying I’ve ever seen, Captain. But don’t do it again.”

Yang’s smile widened to a grin. “Yes’m.” She left the office.  
  



	67. Bad to the Bone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of foreshadowing in this chapter.
> 
> If you're still reading this, please leave me a review! That's how we authors keep going. (And it lets me know that not everyone is reading "Sunshine and Summertime" instead.)

_Commanding Officer’s Office, Joint Base Beacon_

_Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_12 May 2001_

“Let me guess,” Rissa Arashikaze said towards the door that Yang had just shut, “someone with a lot to prove, to herself.”

Ozpin smiled as Glynda finally took her seat. “What do you know about her, Deputy Director of Intelligence of the Central Intelligence Agency?”

Rissa returned the smile. “Yang Xiao Long, daughter of Raven Branwen and Taiyang Xiao Long, both formerly of the United States Air Force. Raven went rogue to steal the Night Raven project soon after Yang was born. Taiyang resigned his commission to take care of his infant daughter, began a relationship with Captain Summer Rose a year later, married a year after that, and they had a second child, Ruby Rose. Major Rose disappeared over the Sea of Japan when Yang was five, though the family was told that she died over the Pacific Northwest in interests of operational security. No body was ever found, and Summer Rose is still officially listed as Missing in Action; Taiyang has refused to change her status to KIA, although he stands to get a lot more in survivor’s benefits if he does. Yang Xiao Long, in an effort to emulate Summer Rose, joined the USAF at 17 through special dispensation, was near the top of her class at the USAF Academy, one of the youngest pilots ever to attend Fighter Weapons School, and was given the honor of being lead pilot on the Silent Eagle project. She is 5 foot 8 inches tall, weighs approximately 110 pounds, and has had no serious relationships.”

Ironwood leaned back in his chair. “Damn. I guess I need to quit making fun of the CIA.”

“We keep tabs on everyone associated with Team Strike, since they were made aware of the Maidens. We have to assume that their children might know something as well. Luckily, Taiyang has made it simple for us by marrying the only two female members of Strike.”

“Tai would be very discreet about such things,” Ozpin said. “I’m certain neither Captain Long nor Lieutenant Rose are aware of the Maidens.”

“We at the CIA don’t take chances, until we do,” Rissa replied.

“Isn’t it illegal for the CIA to spy on American citizens?” Glynda asked. Rissa only laughed. 

“As interesting as it is, learning about how the CIA regularly breaks Federal laws,” Ironwood put in, “I assume that’s not what you wanted to brief us about, Miss Arashikaze.”

“No. There’s no easy way to say this. Ruth Lionheart was murdered.” She told them what had been found in the autopsy. Ozpin sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose under his glasses, while Glynda and Ironwood were clearly shocked. 

“But why?” Glynda asked softly. “Ruth was a junior officer. She didn’t know anything! She had secret clearance only!”

“I don’t know the why, Colonel Goodwitch. Only the how. But if you’d like me to speculate…” Rissa let out a breath. “Barring personal reasons—someone Lionheart pissed off enough to kill her, or an affair of the heart, such as breaking up with someone—my guess is that Lionheart wasn’t killed for something she knew, but for something she learned. Something she wasn’t supposed to know.”

“Like what?” Glynda asked.

“If I knew that, Colonel, I’d be already violating a Federal law by beating the shit out of whoever killed her. There are some people I enjoy doing ‘enhanced interrogation’ on.” Rissa shook her head. “I never met Ruth Lionheart, but I wished I had.”

“She had no enemies, and though base scuttlebutt has it that she had a one-night stand with Lieutenant Vasillas, he doesn’t seem the type to kill her,” Ozpin said.

“That really _would_ be out of my jurisdiction,” Rissa replied. “Unfortunately, it also leaves you with a base full of suspects. I can run profiles on everyone at Vytal, but it’ll take some time.”

“What’s the price?” Ironwood asked.

Rissa smiled. “No price, General. Sometimes we’ll do things for free.”

“Hmm.” Ironwood clearly didn’t believe her. “What about her own flight?” Rissa turned to Ozpin, who read off the names: “Major Cinder Fall, USAF; Lieutenant Emerald Sustrai, Spanish _Ejercito del Aire_ ; Lieutenant Mercury Black, USAF.”

“None of them ring a bell.”

“Black got in big trouble after he got drunk and sexually harrassed Oberleutnant Weiss Schnee at the Spring Formal,” Ironwood prompted.

“General, if he’d been sexually harassing Lionheart,” Rissa returned, “then yes, he’d be suspect number one. But you say it was the Schnee heiress—excuse me, _former_ heiress; Jacques Schnee cut off her funds a few days ago—so we’re back to square one.” Rissa spread her hands. “And again, this is OSI’s baliwick, not mine. I’ve turned over a handwritten autopsy report to them; Doctor Butcher will simply report cause of death as ‘natural causes.’ I don’t have the time to take over the investigation, and even if I did, I’d be _openly_ breaking the law. I will definitely do those background checks, if you like, but I’m afraid my involvement ends here. It has to.”

Ozpin put up his hands. “Easy, Rissa. We’re all friends here.”

“Of course. I apologize for my tone, General.”

Ironwood had a feeling that it was a ‘sorry if you were offended’ apology rather than a sincere one, but he accepted it with a nod and put his hand out. “We appreciate the effort, Miss Arashikaze.” 

Mollified, Rissa took the hand. “There’s one other thing I can do. I have to go to the UK, and I could accompany the body back to Leonardo Lionheart. Maybe he can give me a few leads. I’ll also talk to my counterpart in MI6. It’s a long shot, but I have to talk to him anyway about these Huntsmen disappearing over Poland all of a sudden.” She got up from the seat. “Anyway…that’s my report. Now if none of you mind, I promised Doctor Butcher that I would accompany him into Wisconsin Dells to get extremely drunk and forget we just discovered a murder.”

“One moment, Rissa, if you don’t mind.” Ozpin motioned her back down. “As I said—or at least inferred—the other day, I have a candidate to replace Amber. She’s strong, intelligent, caring, skilled, and as of tomorrow, will become a naturalized American citizen. I’d very much like your opinion on her.” He started to get up, but Glynda did it for him, walked to the door, and opened it. Rissa got to her feet at the tall woman that almost hesitantly walked in. “Rissa Arashikaze, this is Major Pyrrha Nikos.” 

_Building 111713 (Officers’ Club)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_12 May 2001_

Yang got back to the O’Club and went downstairs to the stag bar. Weiss was waiting for her at the top of the stairs, still in her flight suit as well. She ostentatiously checked out Yang’s rear end. “Well. I see some of it is still there.”

The blonde slapped her butt—Yang’s, not Weiss’. “Nah. Goodwitch gave me the red-ass, but even she thought it was cool.” They entered the bar, only to find Funky Flight waiting for them. Neon marched up to Yang, even though the latter had a good six inches on her. “You!” she shouted.

Yang really didn’t feel like having to go back to Ozpin’s office to explain why she’d demolished Neon Katt, but she was prepared to make the sacrifice. “What’s up, Shorty?”

“You beat us! You _beat_ Funky! And that flying through the mountains! That was…” Neon’s scowl changed instantly to a grin, and she took Yang’s hands in hers. “… _amazing!_ I’ve never seen anything like it! I was so intent on seeing if you were going to buy the farm that I couldn’t take the shot!”

“ _We_ nearly bought the farm!” Kobalt added. “I had to yell at you to watch for the mountains!” Yang thought the backseater looked a little pale.

“Nahhh.” Neon waved it off. “Anyway, let me buy you a drink.”

“Does that include Schnee heiresses?” Weiss smiled, but she was staring at Flynt. 

“It does,” he answered, and stuck out a hand. “That turn you did was damn tight. All I could do to stay with you. And then you dragged me in front of her.” He laughed. “Lose sight, lose the fight.”

“I was yelling at you to check six,” Kobalt said. Weiss was starting to think Kobalt’s main job in Funky Flight was to be the only sane man. 

“Yeah, man, I just thought I had an extra second to fire and clear.” He shrugged, though everyone knew that, had this been a real battle, Flynt, Weiss, Neon and Kobalt might be dead. Still, that was why they trained. “Ah well. Losers buy. C’mon, Schnee.” 

“Weiss,” she corrected. “Call me Weiss.”

He nodded and smiled. “Gotcha…Weiss.”

They went up to the bar, and Yang had just ordered a beer when Ruby and Blake came bounding through the door—Ruby bounded; Blake just walked. The younger sister ran up and hugged Yang. “Hey, you won! Congrats!”

“I’d like to say it twernt’ nothin’,” Yang replied, “but these guys gave us one hell of a run.” She scooted Ruby over towards Funky. “Funky Flight, this is my little sister Ruby.”

Flynt looked at her over his sunglasses, which he had left on despite being inside a dim bar. “No offense, but is she old enough to be in here?”

“Not technically,” Ruby told him with a smile, but then she casually looked at the ace board behind the bar. Flynt followed her eyes, looked back to Ruby, then looked at the board again. “Oh,” he said. “ _That_ Ruby Rose. I thought you’d be taller.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Blake, who had detoured to the little fighter pilot’s room, came out and was introduced as well. Neon gave a start at the sight of her, but said nothing, though she continued to stare. Mainly to get the pink-haired girl to stop looking at her, Blake asked them to break down the dogfight, although she’d watched it on TV, with real-time camera pod footage. She’d overheard one of the TV crews crowing that it was some of the best footage they’d ever captured. Very quickly, the pilots were leaning against the bar rather than sitting, and hands flew intercepts and climbed and dived. Blake knew the old adage that if a fighter pilot’s hands were tied, they could not speak.

In the middle of it, the door opened to admit, to Ruby’s surprise, Penny Polendina and Ciel Soleil, the woman that had met Penny in the park that night she had confessed what she really was to Ruby. Penny stared around the bar in wonderment—she’d clearly never been in one—and then saw her friend. She dashed forward, and Ruby was reminded of the clone’s enhanced strength as she hugged Ruby with enough force to leave bruises. “Ruby, my friend!” She dropped her and bowed to the other pilots. “Salutations, fellow pilots!”

They all stared at her. If Ruby appeared too young to be in a bar, this freckled girl with the reddish hair was even more so; she wore a flight suit, but looked more like a kid playing dress-up than an actual pilot. “Are you for real?” Flynt asked.

Ruby, seeing Penny about to explain that she was indeed real, which might lead to awkward moments and questions, intercepted her. “Penny’s the pilot of the B-1 that’s on the transient ramp.”

“Oh,” Neon and Kobalt said simutaneously, and Ruby could see their demeanors instantly change: _bomber pilot._ Someone who had no business being in a fighter pilot bar. Bombers dropped bombs, which clearly any fool could do; one could hardly miss the earth. Fighter pilots were the knights of the air. Nobody made movies about bomber pilots, everyone knew that. 

Yang watched with amusement. “She’s the one responsible for the Lake Michigan Massacre.” She stepped over and put an arm around Penny. “This girl shot down 20 planes that night.”

Penny regarded her boots and actually turned a bit red. “Actually, it was only 13.”

Funky Flight looked at each other, then at her. “Seriously?” Neon asked. 

“Oh yeah,” Blake confirmed. “I was there. It looked like something out of an anime. AMRAAMs flying everywhere.” She thumbed at Penny. “That B-1 of hers looks like a bomber, but it’s a missile platform. They figure out how to put Phoenixes on that thing, and we’re out of business, Neon.”

Penny opened her mouth—her B-1 _could_ carry Phoenixes—but Ciel threw her a warning look. “ _Ne le dis pas,”_ she said, in Cajun French.

“Well, well,” Flynt grinned. “ _Bonjour, Capitaine_ Soleil. Thought I recognized you.”

“You would’ve recognized me sooner if you’d take off those damn sunglasses,” Ciel replied, with a smile. “How you been, _garcon de jazz?”_

“You two know each other?” Weiss asked.

“We were in the Coonass Militia together,” Flynt said. “In the 159th at New Orleans.” He ushered her to a bar seat. “She used to call me Jazz Boy like it’s an insult, but she’s always borrowing my Miles Davis CDs. You got orders to Eglin, though—Systems Command.”

Penny stepped forward. “Oh. She’s assigned to me—with me,” she corrected, then hiccupped. “Excuse me. She helps me run checks on my B-1, flies chase plane, that sort of thing.”

“Sounds boring,” Flynt said.

“I’ve had worse jobs.” They fell into conversation, and Penny looked at Ruby. “I came to find you, my friend, because I’ve gotten permission to show you my B-1 from General Ironwood!”

Ciel instantly turned towards them. “As long as Lieutenant Rose doesn’t touch anything, and doesn’t tell anyone what she sees in there.” Unusually for an African-American woman, Ruby noted, Ciel had some rather hard blue eyes. “And isn’t in there for more than five minutes. Understood?” She began to get up from the bar stool, but Penny pushed her back. “C’mon, Ciel,” she pleaded. “You don’t have to follow me _all_ the time.”

Ruby tried to help. “Captain, I’ve got top secret clearance. You can check my file.”

Ciel hesitated. “Well…all right. I want you back here in thirty minutes, Penny.”

“Certainly!” Penny chirped, and she waved Ruby out the door like two girls going to a sleepover. “Let’s go!”

“Are you her mother?” Flynt laughed as he signaled for a beer.

“Feels like it sometimes,” Ciel sighed.

Ruby managed to get Penny to stop dragging her towards the flightline. “Easy!” she giggled. “It’s not going to fly away, is it?”

“Well, actually,” Penny said, lowering her voice, “it _can_ act autonomously. Project Paladin is actually fully capable of flying a mission completely by itself, including weapons release. However, it’s not very smart. That’s where I come in. But if something happened to me, it could be guided back to base, even if I was knocked out or…well, you know.”

“Kind of creepy,” Ruby commented.

“Yeah. But they had to do something. Someone stole the prototype, so instead of the really cool brand new aircraft I was going to get, I got the B-1 instead. Not that there’s anything wrong with the Lancer.”

“The Bone,” Ruby smiled, using the nickname given to the B-1—a play on its designation of B-One. 

“Meh, I don’t like that. Lancer sounds more heroic.” 

“Hey, girls!” They turned as Emerald Sustrai ran towards them. 

“Oh, hey, Em!” Ruby greeted her. They hadn’t seen each other since the funeral. “Heard you beat up on Coffee Flight. Coco was super pissed.”

Emerald shrugged. “Tough kitty toenails. She made a mistake, let me get in her blind spot, and that was that. Where you headed?”

“I’m taking Ruby to check out my B-1,” Penny replied. “Want to tag along?”

“Heck yeah!” Emerald exclaimed. “I’ve been wanting to get a closer look. We don’t get many bombers in Spain.”

They walked onto the transient ramp, where the sleek B-1 was the only occupant. Even as short as Ruby was, she had to bend over to walk under her F-16’s nose, but the B-1 towered over all of them. Penny was able to stand on tiptoes and turn the handle that dropped the crew hatch. It descended, extending a ladder, and Penny bounded up. Once in the cockpit, she motioned Ruby to climb up. “I can fit two people up here, but not three,” she told Emerald. “Besides, you don’t have clearance. I hate to be mean, but can you stay down there?”

“Sure. I’ll just walk around a bit.” 

“That’s okay.” Penny turned, squeezed past Ruby, and sat in the seat. Emerald did not move from her position underneath the landing gear, where neither of the other girls could see her, and kept her ears open. 

“Just a single seat,” Ruby observed. “And the cockpit’s completely different.” She had seen pictures of the B-1’s cockpit before, but this looked almost nothing like it.

“Yep!” Penny said happily. “Actually, this cockpit is based on the Silent Eagle’s. Your sister doesn’t know it, but she’s been doing research for me!” Penny laughed. “It takes four people to fly a normal B-1B, but they’ve automated most of it with Project Paladin. And since my bird is not really a bomber anymore, we eliminated most of that stuff.”

“You can’t drop bombs at all?”

“I can, but the primary purpose of my aircraft is to engage GRIMM swarms with multiple missiles.” Penny looked a little sad. “Eventually, the plan is to convert the entire B-1 force to Paladins, but they’ll be drones. There might be a single airborne controller, but most of them will be controlled from the ground…and I doubt I’ll be the airborne controller. I suppose they’ll have me testing other stuff by then.”

“But with your enhanced stuff, you’ll get to test out all the really cool aircraft,” Ruby said, trying to cheer her up. “Heck, I bet you can take more than this baby can dish out.”

It worked. Penny beamed. “Oh yes! I’m rated to 12 Gs. Being in the centrifuge is fun!” Ruby smiled, but her stomach lurched at the thought of having to go through centrifuge training again. Being whipped around in a box until she passed out was not her idea of fun. 

Penny started pointing out equipment to Ruby. “I can’t tell you what most of this stuff does, but either you can figure it out or even _I_ don’t know what it does.” She hiccupped. “Anyway, I’ve got the same radar as the F-15SE, with an enhanced version of the AWG-9 system used in the F-14D, augmented with DUST. The latter was installed by Weiss’ dad’s company! I’m compatible with Future Warrior too, so if the Army picked up GRIMM like Death Stalkers, they can link to my onboard computer and feed me targeting data!” Penny grinned. “Pretty cool, huh?”

“Way cool, Penny. Can I…?” Ruby motioned at the seat. Penny nodded and got up, squeezing into one corner of the cockpit as Ruby sat down. The cockpit was very well laid out ergonomically, with everything within arm’s reach, the stick between the pilot’s legs rather than a side-stick like the F-16. Visibility from the cockpit wasn’t great and Ruby thought to herself that she wouldn’t want to take a B-1 into a dogfight, but for standing off and wiping out GRIMM hordes, it would be a very useful instrument. “Uh, Penny?” Ruby patted the seat. “Where’s the ejection handles?”

“Oh.” Penny gave her a weak smile. “Um…there aren’t any.”

“What? How the hell do you bail out?”

“Well…” Penny pointed towards the crew hatch. “Manually. I can also jettison the overhead hatch and bail out that way.”

“You’d never clear the tail if you went out up there—“ Ruby pointed “—and you’d never have time to unstrap and go out the bottom!”

Penny nodded. “Uh huh.” She put a hand on Ruby’s shoulder. “Ruby,” she said in hushed tones, “remember. I’m expendable. I’m considered part of a weapons system. If _Crescent Rose_ goes down, no one cares about the CPU that runs it. If I die, well…there are others.”

Ruby shook her head. “No. That’s bullshit. Penny, you are a human being!”

She shrugged. “I try to look at it this way, Ruby. I’m a test pilot. Chuck Yeager couldn’t bail out of the X-1 if something went wrong. Scott Crossfield couldn’t get out of the D-558-2. So I’m just following in their footsteps.” Penny gave her a gentle shove. “Before we get sad, let’s get out of here. Emerald’s probably bored out of her mind.” Gingerly, they both climbed out of the cockpit and back onto terra firma. Emerald had quickly moved back to the closed bomb bay, as if she was coming back from the tail. 

“One hell of an airplane,” Emerald commented. “How does one person do the work of four?”

“A _lot_ of automation,” Penny replied, not knowing that Emerald had heard everything—except the part about being expendable. 

“Thanks for the tour,” Ruby said.

“Same here, even if I didn’t get to see the inside. Not one little peek?” Emerald asked. Penny sadly shook her head, and the other girl shrugged. “Nada. I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Um…I’m actually too young,” Penny said, truthfully.

“Then I’ll buy you a Coke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flynt and Ciel are speaking French Cajun to each other--which makes sense, since they're both from the 159th Fighter Wing at JRB New Orleans, better known as the "Coonass Militia." Note that, to Cajuns, "coonass" is a compliment. 
> 
> And Penny's right. There really was no way Chuck Yeager or Scott Crossfield could've bailed out of their respective test planes. Test pilot is one of the most dangerous jobs in history--even today.


	68. Instruments of Destruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pyrrha is introduced to Amber, and learns about the Maidens. 
> 
> Wait a minute, this world doesn't have magic! It doesn't, but what the Maidens are might be far worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being a bit late on this chapter. I got busy with "Sunshine and Summertime" and all this coronavirus stuff.

_Commanding Officer’s Office, Joint Base Beacon_

_Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_12 May 2001_

“Now, Major Nikos, it is my understanding that you plan on becoming an American citizen, and renouncing your Greek citizenship?” Rissa Arashikaze asked.

“Yes, Miss Arashikaze,” Pyrrha answered. She took the seat Ozpin offered, which still saw her almost surrounded: Ozpin at his desk, Rissa, Glynda and Ironwood in chairs facing hers. It felt like a board of inquiry, though she’d been reassured it was no such thing. 

“Why are you doing that?”

Pyrrha looked at the floor. “I don’t feel I belong there anymore. Yes, I’m a heroine there, but for all the wrong reasons. I can’t deal with it. Coming to Vytal Flag was an escape, and I…I feel I’ve found myself again here. I don’t know if the United States is the answer, but I also know I can’t stay in Greece any longer.”

“You’re going to disappoint a lot of people there,” Rissa told her.

“I know. I don’t feel good about that. But if I go back, I fear for my life. Not from someone else,” she assured them, “but that I’ll take my own life.” 

“I assume the Greek government is aware of this?”

“Yes. I will finish out Vytal Flag as a member of the Hellenic Air Force. Then I will resign my commission, renounce my citizenship, and become an American citizen. I’ve been told—“ she glanced up at Ozpin “—that I will be allowed to transfer into the United States Air Force. If I so choose.” Her fingers twisted in her lap. “I may retire.”

“I doubt that,” Glynda said. “As you said, you’ve really come alive since you joined Juniper Flight, Major. I think you may find that it’s not as easy to pull the pin as you think.” She looked pointedly at Ozpin.

So did Rissa. “I don’t think she’s the right person.”

“Major Nikos is quite skilled,” Ozpin replied. “Her conduct here has been exemplary, and her career has been stellar.”

“I agree. And I include Crete in that.” She turned back to Pyrrha. “I read the report. All of it. I know you feel quite guilty about that incident, but I don’t think you should.” Before Pyrrha answered, Rissa continued. “That’s not my concern. If you have divided loyalties, you are not fit for this position.”

Ironwood fixed Pyrrha with a stare. “You’ve been informed that you are going to be offered a position of incredible responsibility. Rissa’s right: if you take this position, you cannot be loyal to two masters.”

Pyrrha nodded, returning his gaze without faltering. “As I recall, General, in the oath of naturalization I renounce all previous loyalties to other countries.” She sat up straight in the chair. “What are you asking me to do?”

“Before we do that,” Ozpin said, “you need to understand that what we are about to tell you is known to a handful of people in this country, over half of which are in this room. It is beyond top secret. It is the most important secret known to mankind.”

Pyrrha opened her mouth, but Rissa interrupted her. “If you’re let into this circle of knowledge, Pyrrha Nikos, you will take the secret to your grave. You will not tell your mother. You will not tell that French boyfriend of yours. You will not tell your flight. You will not tell God in prayer, unless it’s a silent one. If you break this oath, you will be killed. Anyone you tell will be killed. I will execute these orders personally. I’ve done it before. Do you understand?”

The steel in the little woman’s voice took Pyrrha aback. She hesitated.

“This is your last chance to get up and run out that door,” Ironwood told her.

Pyrrha took a deep breath. _No,_ she told herself, _this is the price I will pay. My penance for what I’ve done._ “I swear to you that I will tell no one. My word is my bond.”

“Very well.” Ozpin got to his feet. “Major, please follow me. Glynda, James…”

“I’ll stay,” Ironwood said. “Too many people going into certain areas attract attention.”

“I’ll go,” Glynda volunteered.

“I’ll bow out, if you don’t mind,” Rissa said. “I made my point to Major Nikos.” She stood and put her hand on Pyrrha’s shoulder. She was short enough that Pyrrha still came up to Arashikaze’s small chest even when sitting. “I don’t meant to scare you, Major. But I’m not joking about how secret this is. None of us are. I _have_ killed to keep this secret. I won’t hesitate to do it again, but I’d prefer not to.”

Pyrrha gave a short nod. “I understand, Miss Arashikaze.” At no point had she been told exactly who Rissa Arashikaze was, but Pyrrha decided it was better she not know. Rissa patted her shoulder again and left. 

“Glynda, Qrow should already be there, but do you want to remind him?” Glynda nodded, and pulled out her cell phone. “Major?” Ozpin showed her out. Ironwood got up as well. “If he’s wrong about this,” he said quietly to Glynda, “we’re all going to be in deep shit.”

Ozpin led Pyrrha across the street to the hospital, retracing the route he’d taken with Rissa the day before. What he didn’t know was that he was being observed. The area was in line of sight of the park, and Cinder Fall had been taking her lunches there, on the odd chance she might see something. She’d seen Ozpin and a short woman going to the hospital the day before, which meant nothing. But now she saw him again, this time with Pyrrha Nikos. 

Cinder watched, finishing her sandwich. She waited a little longer after they went into the hospital, then saw Glynda Goodwitch cross the street as well. A little while after that, Ironwood came out and got into his car. “Interesting,” she said, smiling. “Very interesting.”

She opened a bag of chips and finished her lunch. Patience was a virtue.

Pyrrha and Ozpin went through the same hallways, to the same room, and through the same hygienic procedures. They went down the elevator to Amber’s room, where Qrow Branwen waited. Pyrrha’s hands went to her face at the sight of Amber. “Who is she?” she asked.

“Your predecessor,” Ozpin said simply. “I wanted you to see her, and so did she. Rissa told you the consequences of breaking silence. Amber is what happens when someone _else_ learns of you.” Ozpin put his hands behind his back, gazing at the broken woman in the bed. “Sometimes it is better to be blind than to see.”

“What is going on?” Pyrrha said, though she kept her voice down for Amber’s sake; the other woman looked to be asleep, her chest barely rising and falling. Ozpin said nothing, but Pyrrha jumped when the elevator behind her opened, admitting Glynda. He nodded to her, then motioned them to seats, though he remained standing, the cane behind his back. Qrow sat next to Amber, reaching through the plastic to gently stroke her remaining arm.

“A history lesson, to start,” Ozpin began. “In October 1962, as you are aware, the United States and the Soviet Union went to war over nuclear missiles being placed in Cuba. Why the war started doesn’t matter, only what happened next. Millions died in the nuclear exchange, and it was considered a limited one. The Soviet Union ceased to exist, the survivors reduced to a Middle Ages existence. Parts of Europe, such as the British Midlands and parts of both Germanies, also were destroyed. Most of the West Coast and Northeast United States were also destroyed, but the United States, somehow, survived—a Remnant, if you will.

“In the aftermath, what was left of the United Nations convened in Geneva in February 1963. Most of the world’s nuclear weapons had been expended, but the United States in particular, as well as Britain and France, still had a few left. Though it had been the Soviets who had fired first, the UN believed that the United States also bore some responsibility. President Kennedy, who had been evacuated from Washington DC only minutes before it was destroyed—he had lost his entire family in the destruction of Washington—did not quite agree, but offered to disarm and render inert all remaining nuclear weapons, over a period of ten years, if all other nuclear powers at that time also agreed. They did, and the Treaty of Geneva, which led to universal nuclear disarmament, was signed in November 1963.”

“I was aware of that,” Pyrrha said, keeping her voice neutral. The Treaty of Geneva was taught in grade school, and Oobleck’s lectures had reinforced it. 

“Of course,” Ozpin nodded. “What you don’t know is that there was a secret collorary to the treaty. _Almost_ all nuclear weapons were destroyed by 1973. But secretly, each nuclear-capable nation was allowed to keep twenty or so devices, until 1984, when the remainder were indeed destroyed. By that time, China had acquired nuclear weapons, but this was not considered an issue.”

“Why not?” Pyrrha asked. “I’d think any nation with nuclear weapons would destabilize the world.”

“It sure would,” Qrow put in. “If we didn’t already have something that was _worse_ than nukes.”

“Arguably worse,” Ozpin said. Suddenly, he looked very old. “And here is where we go down the rabbit hole, Pyrrha. Again, I ask you: are you willing to do this?”

Pyrrha looked at Amber. The poor woman looked close to death. “May I ask one question?” Ozpin nodded. “What happened to her?”

“Some people found out that Amber was privy to the same secrets you may be,” Glynda said. “And they shot her down and tried to capture her, or at least kill her. Qrow was able to rescue her, but to say she was badly injured would be a gross understatement.”

“Will she live?” Pyrrha saw Glynda slowly shake her head. The Greek woman stood, walked over to the plastic, and stared for awhile at Amber. The room was silent except for the whir and beep of machines keeping Amber alive. “All right,” Pyrrha said. 

Ozpin continued. “By 1984, four of the five major powers in the world—the United States, the European Union, Japan, and Israel—signed another secret agreement, the Strategic Defense Initiative. To counter China’s nuclear weapons, any other groups that might acquire nuclear weapons, and mass GRIMM attacks that threatened the existence of any of the four treaty members, each of the SDI signers received a single weapons satellite. No one knows who coined the term, but they were all codenamed the Maidens.”

“Maidens?”

“Someone’s idea of a joke,” Glynda said; she looked at Ozpin as she did so, though Pyrrha didn’t notice.

“Each Maiden is named for a season,” Ozpin said, ignoring Glynda. “The Fall Maiden is controlled by the US. Winter is Europe’s. Spring is Israel’s, and Summer is Japan’s.”

Pyrrha turned away from Amber, shock on her face. “And they’re in orbit right now?”

“Three of them are,” Ozpin replied. “The Spring Maiden malfunctioned. Israel relies on its military prowess to defend it from its enemies—though nowadays the Arabs generally leave them alone. However, it is strongly believed that, when the Spring Maiden failed, Israel merely armed itself with nuclear weapons—assuming they didn’t already have them. We don’t ask, and—“ Ozpin smiled “—they don’t tell.”

“Orbital nuclear weapons.” Pyrrha suppressed a shudder. 

“Nope,” Qrow corrected her. “Not nukes.”

“Kinetic energy rounds,” Ozpin said. “Each Maiden carries fifty rounds. Each round is a tungsten rod weighing ten tons. When fired, the gravity well of the planet itself and its own propulsion causes it to accelerate to speeds up to, and exceeding, ten times the speed of sound. When it hits, it will hit with the same lethality and destruction as a ten kiloton nuclear weapon—without the residual radiation.”

“It’s meant mainly to stop a massive GRIMM attack,” Glynda added. “But the existence of the Maiden also ensures that each of the three nations can prevent an attack on the other. Should the EU attack the US, for instance, we could retaliate against every European city. And because the Maiden’s weapons are so fast, they cannot be intercepted.”

“Rods from God,” Qrow sighed.

Pyrrha sat down. “My God. That explains why China never used its nuclear weapons during the Reunification War.”

“No. Beijing was warned after the Maidens went operational of their existence. They also knew Japan needed little provocation to use the Summer Maiden if they so chose,” Ozpin replied. “Since China has been reunified, there is talk of adding a fifth Maiden for China, but that is still in negotiation.” He shrugged. “I suppose I might as well tell you. Until China gets a Maiden, it is allowed to maintain fifty nuclear weapons for balance—secretly, of course.”

“Balance of terror,” Pyrrha said.

“Exactly. The same mutually assured destruction the world operated under with nuclear weapons. A policy that, sadly, failed.”

“What’s to stop it from happening again?” she wanted to know.

Qrow leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. “That’s where you come in, kid.”

Ozpin nodded, and finally took a seat, scooting it close to Pyrrha. “The Maiden can only be fired with the permission of three people: the leader of the nation, a senior military official, and…a junior military official. The latter is selected by those who know about the Maidens in each nation, and they are selected for high trustworthiness, ability to make quick decisions, and…their humanity. They also must be fighter pilots.”

“Why?” Pyrrha asked.

“Because we’re in the air a lot of the time,” Qrow answered. “Damn hard to get to us.” He looked at Amber. “Most of the time.”

“The reason why there are three is obvious,” Ozpin said. “All three must agree to weapons release. If any one person disagrees, the Maidens are not used. In the old days, with nuclear weapons, each missile launch crew was provided with two keys, which had to be turned simutaneously and both had to agree. In fact, some missiles of all three nations involved in the Third World War _refused_ to launch based on that agreement. The third person was added to provide an added layer of responsibility. The fact that the third is also a junior officer means that a bunch of tired, old people are not in charge of the power to devastate the world a second time.” Ozpin chuckled. “I suppose it is the last vestige of the Victorian Era, when women were put on pedestals, that all of the junior officers chosen thus far have been women. It is the idea that women, as traditional nuturers and mothers, might be more reluctant to unleash hell than men.”

Glynda laughed with irony. “Apparently they didn’t realize back in the 80s that we ladies can be every bit as murderous as men.” She shared a quick glance with Ozpin: both were thinking of Salem. But explaining that mystery would need to wait. Pyrrha had enough to absorb as it was.

“Especially every 28 days,” Qrow grinned. Glynda gave him a good-natured middle finger.

Ozpin cleared his throat, getting them back on track. “The three people who have control of the Fall Maiden are President Shawcross, myself, and Amber.” He pointed to her. “All of us have a device nearby to us at all times. For the President, it is the briefcase carried by his personal aide. For myself—“ Ozpin held up his cane. “And for Amber, it is that box on her wrist. For the junior officer, the box measures heart rate and respiration. There is a small keyboard beneath the flap. Should heart rate or respiration cease, the device activates a small thermite charge inside within three minutes and is rendered inert. Should Maiden release be authorized, the officer will type in their personal keycode, chosen by the officer and known only to them.” Ozpin ran a hand over his cane. “If all three codes are accepted by the satellite, it becomes available to use. Coordinates can then be typed in by any one of the three, and the Maiden fires.”

“My God,” Pyrrha repeated. “What about the EU’s—the Winter Maiden?”

“The Winter Maiden is controlled by the President of the EU—currently Sleet van Geffen. The other two are Supreme Allied Commander Europe—SACEUR—and a member of the Luftwaffe, whose name you don’t need to know.” Ozpin smiled. “It’s not a Schnee, if you’re wondering.” _Not yet,_ he added to himself. Freya Gletscher was junior only in name, was actually advanced in years, and not in good health. Once she died, Winter Schnee was on the short list of people to replace her. Unknown to everyone but Ozpin, so was Weiss Schnee.

“Isn’t SACEUR always an American?” Pyrrha observed.

“Yes. The EU felt that there were too many old rivalries between the European nations, but Americans have no skin in the game,” Glynda said. “Don’t ask about Japan. Even we’ve never been told by the Japanese who controls the Summer Maiden.”

“So let me get this straight,” Pyrrha said, using an expression she’d heard Nora use. “If I accept, I will have that box on me at all times—“

“Or nearby,” Ozpin interrupted. “In theory, we could even build it into a circlet, like the one you like to wear.”

“—all right. And I would be responsible for possibly concurring in the death of tens of thousands of people?”

“Yep.” Qrow withdrew his flask, took a drink, and offered some to Pyrrha, who refused. “That make you sick?”

“Yes,” Pyrrha replied.

“Good,” Ozpin said. “Because that is why we chose you. Myself, Glynda, Qrow, Ironwood, and now Rissa Arashikaze. Someone who wants the power can’t be trusted with it. Someone who hates the power _can_ be trusted with it. And if you’re wondering about Crete,” he told her, reading her mind, “that figured into our decision. You regretted your actions over Crete, even if they may or may not have been the correct ones. Someone who will think before they take a step like Maiden release is someone we want in that position. Someone who understands personal responsibility.”

“And because I’m planning on becoming an American…” Pyrrha began.

“Your name shot to the top of the list,” Glynda finished.

There was another long stretch of silence. Then a fifth voice entered the conversation. “If…you’re done…with the…infodump,” Amber said hoarsely, “can I…talk…to her?” Her hand raised weakly and motioned towards Pyrrha. “C’mere, you.”

Pyrrha got up and went over. “Hmm,” Amber said with a tired smile. “Redhead. Don’t think…I agree. Gingers…don’t have souls.” Both started laughing, though Amber’s laugh degenerated into a wheezing cough. When she could, she raised her hand again. “Hi there. Amber Tardor.”

“Pyrrha Nikos.” She shook Amber’s hand through the plastic.

“Um. Good grip. Whatcha…fly?”

“F-16,” Pyrrha answered.

“Viper driver.” The smile broadened. “Me too.” She seemed to summon up what remained of her strength. “You believe…this bullshit?” Pyrrha paused, then shook her head. “Yeah. Me…neither. But…true. All of it.” She inclined her head towards the box on her wrist. “I like you…already. I think…you…you’d be okay. But…y’know…give it a few days.”

“Amber,” Ozpin warned, “we may not have a few days.”

To their surprise, Amber struggled up to almost a sitting position, balancing on her only arm. “I’m…not dead yet. I’ll last longer…than that.” She grinned. “Fuck you…Oz. Give her time.”

Ozpin was quiet for a moment. “48 hours. No more.”

“More like it.” Amber collapsed backwards, wheezing. Pyrrha took her hand and gripped it tight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So those are the Maidens. It may seem a bit of a reach, but this story kind of is in general. The idea of "kinetic energy rounds" has been around since the 60s (Heinlein uses them in Starship Troopers), so no, I didn't get the idea from Call of Duty. However, I greatly increased the amount of damage kinetic rounds can do; they actually can't hit with quite that amount of destructive impact. But the technology exists, and it wouldn't be surprising if something like the Maidens already exists in some form. Having a "three key" system involving someone like Pyrrha or Amber is very unrealistic, but it keeps the RWBY Maidens without actually having magic.
> 
> The possibility of Kennedy surviving a nuclear war resulting from the Cuban Missile Crisis isn't unrealistic. Helicopters were on five minute standby to get the President clear of the blast zone (with 10-15 minutes between launch from Cuba and impact), but there was no provision for evacuating JFK's family. I slightly borrowed that from the book of Fail-Safe.


	69. The Things We Do For Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman Torchwick has a meeting with Rissa Arashikaze of the CIA: he's being moved to Fort Leavenworth. But when Ember sees Roman leaving, she notifies Neo and the White Fang. Will Sienna and Adam agree to a rescue mission, or will Roman be abandoned to his fate?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another bad guy chapter, mostly. This is very much a slow build to the huge Battle of Beacon that's coming up.

_Building 121215 (Base Correctional Facility)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_12 May 2001_

“Nobody knows…the trouble I’ve seen…” Roman Torchwick dragged his shoe across the bars. He tended to do this. The guards, stationed at the far end of the facility, had learned to ignore it. Eventually, they knew he would get bored, which indeed did happen. 

Torchwick walked over to his bed and flopped on it. He’d been here just over a week now, and no one had come to visit him, other than the guard who brought him food three times a day. Not even Ironwood. He wasn’t sure if he’d been merely forgotten, or they were trying to break him with isolation. He was the only one in the facility, so far as he knew. 

He sat up when he heard the guards open the door. There was a clock on the hallway wall; he’d already had dinner, so this was unusual. He heard boots on linoleum, but the tread was light, not like one of the guards or Ironwood. For a moment, he thought it might be Neo, as incredible as that would be.

It was not Neo, though the woman that came into view was about Neo’s height, possibly even shorter. She was an older woman, though not unattractive. “Well, hello there,” Torchwick smiled. He jumped to his feet and executed a deep bow. “I am the world famous air pirate Roman Torchwick. And who might have the honor of addressing?”

The woman gave him a curtsey. “Hello, Roman Torchwick. My name is Rissa Arashikaze. I’m from the world famous Central Intelligence Agency.”

Torchwick paled. Ironwood had warned him about this: if he didn’t talk about the future plans of the White Fang and Salem, he would be facing the death penalty as an air pirate—though he would get a trial. Ironwood had also mentioned the very real possibility that there would not be a trial: he would be simply turned over to the CIA and would disappear. And now it seemed the latter was frightening reality. “Oh,” he said, his cheery demeanor vanishing.

“I see our reputation precedes us.” Rissa leaned against the bars. “So, what should we talk about today?”

“I don’t know anything,” Torchwick told her. It was not quite the truth—he knew about the Black Queen computer virus—but beyond that he really did not know very much.

“I doubt that _very_ much,” she said sweetly. “And, not to be cliché, but I _do_ have ways of making you talk.” She regarded her fingernails. “I’d prefer not to use torture, but I’m more than prepared to do so.” She faced him and smiled. “You’ve probably heard it referred to as ‘enhanced interrogation,’ but I don’t like flowery words. I don’t use ‘extraordinary rendition,’ I take you somewhere no one’s ever heard of. I don’t ‘service targets,’ I kill them. And I don’t use ‘enhanced interrogation,’ I torture people until they tell me things they don’t know.”

Torchwick could not stop an involuntary swallow. “So, like…waterboarding?”

Rissa laughed. “Waterboarding is what they do in fraternities during Greek Week. I put people in ropes. I insert things in places things aren’t supposed to be inserted. And then there’s my personal favorite: lack of sleep.”

Torchwick blinked. “What?”

“Mm-hm. After 72 hours without sleep? You’ll be _begging_ to tell me whatever you know, just for five minutes to close your eyes.” Rissa’s smiled faded to a more neutral expression. “Or, you know…we can just talk.”

He sat on the bed and thought. He had no loyalty to the White Fang—in fact, he had grown to dislike Sienna Khan thoroughly. Her incompetence had cost him two hideouts and probably his gang. This Salem sounded frightening, but he wasn’t even sure she existed. He could tell what little he knew, and not only avoid torture, but the firing squad. It meant life in prison, but that was better than the nothingness of death, and much better than whatever this half-pint psychotic was planning. He found himself smiling a little: she _did_ remind him of Neo.

And that was why Roman knew he could not tell them. Salem or Sienna might not be able to get to him, but they could get to Neo. The thought of her in the hands of the White Fang, who were known to flay humans to death, made his blood run cold. For Neo, then, he would risk it.

“The things we do for love,” he murmured.

“I’m sorry?” Rissa asked. She wasn’t quite sure she’d heard him.

“I’ve told Ironwood everything I know,” Torchwick said sadly. “And I can’t tell you what I don’t know. No matter how much you torture me.”

Rissa watched him for a moment. She was now sure he was hiding something, but she also knew that there was a good reason why he would be hard to break. She would break him—everyone broke sooner or later—but it would take time, which was not something she had at the moment. She couldn’t very well put him in the ropes at Beacon. “Very well,” she said evenly. She waved in the guards. “You’re being transferred to Fort Leavenworth Military Prison, where you will be put on trial for air piracy, conspiracy, terrorism, and murder. The penalty will be death by firing squad. But before then, you’ll see me again.” She smiled again. “So give it some thought. Goodbye, Roman Torchwick.” She said it with a note of finality.

He watched her leave, and sighed as the guards began unlocking his cell door. “I already have,” he said. 

Emerald Sustrai stopped, wiping sweat from her brow. “Whew.” She’d always been a runner, though growing up, her running hadn’t been voluntary. Though she no longer had to run, she still did, because one never knew when it might come in handy. On Cinder’s orders, she’d taken to jogging down Arryn Avenue, to the main gate and back to the VOQ, around dusk. Her route took her past the base jail. She couldn’t be too obvious about it, but Cinder saw it as a way to keep tabs on whether or not Roman Torchwick was still there. She figured that, if Torchwick was moved, there would be a security convoy moving him. Ironwood was rarely subtle. Emerald was happy to obey Cinder’s orders, because it gave her time to think, though she wasn’t sure what the point of thinking was: she was in too deep to get out now. If she ran, they would hunt her down, and Emerald was tired of running. 

She took a breath, stretched, and to her surprise, saw a group of camouflaged HMMWVs stopped in front of the correctional facility, with base security police cars flanking them. As she watched, several men in body armor and helmets led a man out dressed in orange fatigues. He was quickly led to one of the HMMWVs, but not before she recognized Roman Torchwick. 

Emerald knew police all too well. Instead of immediately running or jogging away, she merely remained where she was, and kept stretching, balancing on one foot while she brought the other up around her back. Given that she was dressed in a sweat-stained T-shirt and very tight biker shorts, and the fact that Emerald was quite attractive, it was enough to stop any man in his tracks. The Security Police definitely noticed her and appreciated the show, but by staring at her, they did not suspect the real reason she was there. By the time she was finished stretching, the sound of trumpets echoed across the base, presaging ‘Taps’ and the lowering of the flag. Emerald came to attention, faced in the direction of the base quad, and saluted as the prisoner convoy drove past her. Then she calmly jogged back to the VOQ.

_Covert Base Hector_

_Formerly Fargo, North Dakota, United States of Canada_

_12 May 2001_

“Always good to hear from you, Cinder. I’ll be sure to give Aunt Chestnut your love. I’ll let you know about our travel plans just as soon as I talk to her.” Arthur Watts made a kissing noise. “Good night, love.” Then he hung up the phone, leaned back in the swivel chair for a moment, and grinned beneath the thick mustache before he got to his feet, left the dusty office, and walked down the corridor to the base’s main hangar.

Inside, there was a soft buzz of activity. The night was a time to work for the White Fang at Hector; during the day there was too much chance of detection from either GRIMM or, worse, the US military. Watts passed under the wing of a USAF C-130 that had landed two days before. It was intact. Its crew were filling a shallow grave behind the hangar, along with the men and women that had worked at Hector—before it fell to the White Fang a week before.

Sienna was in one corner of the hangar, surrounded by four of her men. As he approached, she punched at two of them and kicked at the others, landing solid hits on the padded blocks each man held in front of him. She saw him and dismissed the four, who bowed to her and left. “Arthur,” she greeted him, turned, bent over, and grabbed a towel. He admired the view: Faunus or not, Sienna was lovely. It helped that she was dressed in a workout suit that did little to hide her assets. The stripes on her arms and legs, and the large ears atop her head did not at all take away from her exotic beauty. She straightened up and noticed him staring. “Why, Doctor Watts, I didn’t know you cared.”

He inclined his head. “My apologies, High Leader. I did not mean to stare.”

“Yes, you did. But that’s fine.” She dabbed her forehead. “Besides staring at my backside, did you have something to report?”

“A great number of things. We should meet.”

“Very well.” She raised her voice. “Octavia!” A female White Fang, who had been field stripping a M4 carbine, stood and came to attention. “Find Adam Taurus and have him meet us in the briefing room.”

“Neo Politan as well,” Watts added. “This concerns her.”

The briefing room was a small room at the base of the control tower. It had been the senior controller’s office, and it was a bit crowded with all four of them in it. Sienna sat in one of the chairs while Adam took the other. Both had towels draped across their necks; he had been working out as well, practicing with the katana that never left his side. Dressed in stolen workout gear, he still wore the mask; Watts had never seen him without it. Neo was dressed in her flight suit: sullen and silent, she had been what she usually did in her waking hours, besides brooding: doing maintenance on her borrowed F-22. 

“I just got off the phone with Cinder Fall,” Watts began. “We may have to move up the schedule a little. It seems we’ve gotten a break.” 

“Oh?” Sienna inquired.

“Yes. Cinder tells me that Penny Polendina has returned to Beacon with her B-1. That may mean nothing to you, but it means a great deal to me. Miss Polendina’s B-1 is known to me as Project Paladin, and that’s because I designed and installed most of its systems while I was working with Schnee GmbH. The aircraft is a prototype for a standoff weapon for use against GRIMM hordes, and can be entirely flown remotely.”

Adam smiled. “Let me guess. You left yourself a backdoor into the system.”

“Not quite, but I can hack into it without too much trouble. Once in, I can create all kinds of havoc.”

“Enough to distract Beacon from an assault?” Sienna asked.

“Enough to put our plan into motion, in conjunction with Cinder. It’s a revised version of Wedding Party, but aside from the attack on La Crosse—which is no longer necessary after the United States Army kindly withdrew all but a single brigade of the 1st Armored Division from the Mississippi Barrier—the effects will be much the same. Whatever I do with the Paladin B-1, Cinder will then launch her portion of the plan, and the White Fang will launch its assault.”

“And Salem?”

“Naturally, my communication with her is spotty at best, but I have been assured that the GRIMM will attack the barrier around the same time. She has something special planned—something I’m assured has never been seen before. And before you ask, I have no idea what it is. All I need do is send her the signal 24 hours in advance and it will be on the way.” 

“A coordinated attack,” Adam mused. “Let’s hope it works this time.”

“It should. We have had more time to prepare, and now that we’ve…acquired…a C-130, it will make penetrating Beacon airspace to be much, much easier.”

“Very well,” Sienna said. “When do we go?”

“Four to five days. Will that be adequate?”

“More than adequate,” Adam answered. “We could go within two days if necessary. And the sooner the better. We’ve gotten lucky that the only aircraft that has landed here has been a C-130 with engine trouble. Sooner or later, it will be a combat aircraft or two, and they will get off a report.”

“Indeed.” Watts paused. “There is one other thing, and this concerns you, Miss Politan.” She’d been studiously ignoring them, but now her head came up. “Roman Torchwick is no longer at Beacon. He’s being moved.”

Adam scooted his chair away from her, and Neo scowled. “Fuck,” she snarled.

“However,” Watts added, “I might could learn his intinerary. I have access to the US military’s data network. Their most secure prison is Fort Leavenworth in Kansas; depending on the route they use, we might could rescue him.”

Neo’s eyes seemed to light up, and for the first time since he’d met her, Watts saw her smile. Sienna glanced at her, and also scooted her chair over a little. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

The small woman’s smile instantly disappeared. “Fuck you!”

Sienna sighed. “Trust me, Neo, I would love to rescue Roman Torchwick.” Her tone indicated otherwise. “But we could compromise the mission. And before you tell me where I can put the mission,” she said, as Neo opened her mouth, “our survival is _your_ survival.”

“Still,” Adam spoke, “let’s at least look into it. We’ve been very quiet, and I imagine that’s made the Americans rather nervous. At some point, someone will notice us here. If we were to attack Roman’s captors, it might distract them away from Beacon. They’ll be looking for us elsewhere.”

“Unless they track us back to Hector,” Sienna told him. 

“Why should they?” Adam countered. “It’s at least worth looking into.” He reached back, and to Neo’s surprise, took her hand in his. “The things we do for love, eh? I know a little about that.”

“I’d noticed,” Sienna growled. “All right, Doctor. If you can find the route, then _maybe_ we’ll try something. But don’t get your hopes up. I won’t compromise the mission for your boyfriend.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The torture that Rissa describes are real methods. The ropes were used by the North Vietnamese during the Vietnam War, and are frighteningly effective (as well as absolutely horrific for the damage they do to a human body). The lack of sleep is an old KGB trick, and even worse than physical torture: during Stalin's purges, the NKVD would keep people awake for 72 hours, after which they would sign any confession Stalin required--just for a little sleep. Rissa Arashikaze might work for the good guys in this story...but that doesn't mean she's a good person. (This will also be her last appearance for awhile, as she is an OC.)


	70. House On Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Yang prepares to take on Mercury in the 1V1 fight at Vytal Flag, the White Fang and Neo launch their attempt to rescue Roman Torchwick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nice long chapter here. Trying to switch days with "Sunshine and Summertime."

_Squadron Dispersal A_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_13 May 2001_

Technical Sergeant Darren Yorse watched as the rest of the ground crew lifted the DACT pod into position on _Ember Celica’s_ starboard outboard wing station. The orange-painted pod, which resembled a Sidewinder without the fins, would feed telemetry back to Beacon’s computer, which in turn cataloged the simulated missile shots. Once Yorse was satisfied the pod was in place, he ducked under the F-15’s fuselage. On a cart lay the camera pod that would go on the centerline. Once that was on, he could start fueling the aircraft for the day’s operation. He ducked back out and went past the nose, unable to resist patting the six kill marks painted there behind the bright yellow nose. 

One of the crew “bread trucks” pulled up to the revetment, and Yorse instantly recognized Emerald Sustrai; there weren’t too many dark-skinned girls with green hair on base. “Morning, Lieutenant,” he greeted her.

“Hey, Sarge.” She handed him a clipboard and several forms. “Captain Ozpin’s ordering your bird and Mercury’s to carry live rounds today. There’s been some GRIMM sighted over Minnesota, so—just in case they stray into the exercise zone.”

Yorse looked over the sheets. “Captain Long already signed off on this?”

“Yeah. I ran into her on the way over.”

Yorse saw that the forms were all signed the way they were supposed to, by Ozpin and Yang Xiao Long. It didn’t make any sense to him, but there were quite a few times the United States Air Force did things that didn’t make any sense to him or anyone else. “All right then…full load of twenty mike mike. Got it.” He signed the forms. “Why do they have you doing this, Lieutenant?”

Emerald shrugged. “Major Fall told me to do it and gave me the forms. I just saluted and said ‘yes, ma’am’.” She grinned. “I just work here, Sarge.”

“Hear that, ma’am.” He handed the forms back, keeping one for his own records. They exchanged salutes, and Emerald climbed back into the truck, driving off in the direction of Mercury’s F-16. Yorse sighed, shaking his head. This was going to add a few more minutes to preparation.

Mercury Black put on his G-suit as Cinder watched. “I want it on record,” he said in a low voice, although they were alone in the equipment room, “that I think this is a terrible plan.”

“If I wanted your opinion, Mercury, I’d rattle the toilet paper.” Cinder handed him his survival vest. 

“What’s stopping Yang from stitching me right across the canopy?” he protested.

“Nothing. You’d just better hope she doesn’t.” 

He threw on the survival vest and scowled. “You don’t really give a shit if she kills me, do you, Cinder?”

She smiled. “Nope. A few weeks ago, I would’ve cared. But that was before you decided to be a psychotic dumbass and kill Ruth Lionheart. So now, I really don’t care if Yang gives you a 20 millimeter suppository.”

He smiled back. Neither smile held any humor. “So what’s stopping me from going to Ozpin and blowing the whole lid off this scheme?”

“Nothing…other than being tried for first-degree murder. Assuming you get that far before you meet with an accident.” Cinder motioned towards the front door. “Go for it, Mercury.”

“Fuck you.” He finished getting dressed. “One of these days, Cinder, you and I are going to have a nice little talk.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” She patted him on the shoulder. “Good luck.” Cinder blew him a kiss and walked to the door. It opened to admit Yang. “Oh, hello there, Yang.”

“Whassup.” To Yang’s surprise, Cinder held up a hand for a high five. She was in too good a mood to refuse. Cinder shut the door behind her, and Yang saw to her dismay that Mercury was in the room as well. They had avoided each other since the dance. He’d apologized for it, but Yang tended to bear grudges. She ignored him as she opened her locker and began pulling out equipment. 

“Hey.” Mercury sounded tired. Yang grunted in reply. “Okay, look,” Mercury began, “I know you don’t like me, and that’s fine. I probably deserve it. But I was thinking…you want to do something cool? For the cameras?”

“Like what?” Yang started putting on the G-suit over her flight suit. 

“Guns only. Let’s do some Red Baron shit. Guns only from the six.” Mercury added the last for his own survival: guns only was part of the plan, but if Yang decided to do a head-on gun pass, he probably _would_ die. 

Yang paused. That would look pretty cool. She didn’t like missile shots anyway, unless she was fighting GRIMM; going in for guns was old school, what her ancestors would’ve done—though she wasn’t sure if she had any ancestors who were fighter pilots. “Sure.”

“Cool. See you up there.” Mercury didn’t bother shaking hands; he knew Yang would refuse. Instead, he picked up his helmet bag and headed out the door. 

Yang smiled at his back. “I’m going to enjoy this, you piece of shit,” she whispered.

_Regency 26 (E-3A AWACS)_

_Eberle Line Track 2, Near Valentine, Nebraska, United States of Canada_

_13 May 2001_

Airman 1st Class Heather Cummings watched her radar screen, and fought down a yawn. She remembered the old saying that military service was long stretches of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. Today was most certainly the former. She wished she’d switched schedules with someone, since the 1V1 round of Vytal Flag sounded really good today. Oh well—someone back at Regency’s home base of Tinker AFB would record it. 

Then she picked up a blip at the northern half of her sector. Her radio crackled. “Regency 26, this is Rock 22, C-130 out of Hector, flying air test, over.”

Cummings remembered Rock 22. It was a C-130 flying from Ellsworth to Winnipeg that had engine trouble and had put down at Hector a few days previously. Apparently the engine trouble had been enough to ground it. “Rock 22, Regency 26, go ahead.”

“Roger, Regency. Report GRIMM fifteen miles west of Detroit Lakes…raid count about six, seven Beowolves.”

Cummings leaned closer to her screen, and flicked a switch to increase the gain on the radar spinning above the E-3’s fuselage. “Rock 22, Regency, I have no contacts that sector. Angels and heading?”

“Ah, wait one, Regency.” There was a brief moment of silence. “Angels about two or three, heading three one zero.”

Cummings sat back in her seat. Even at that altitude, the E-3’s powerful radar was capable of picking up GRIMM. The formation would be heading southeast, which would put them on course for Beacon, but Beowolves were subsonic; it would be an hour before they would get to the Mississippi. “Rock 22, Regency, still no contacts.”

“Well, Regency, if you want to come over here and look, you’re welcome to. We’re turning back for Hector until clear skies.”

She smiled in spite of herself. An unarmed C-130 was easy meat for GRIMM; she couldn’t blame the crew of Rock 22. “Understand, Rock 22. Will pass it on. Regency monitoring, out.” She watched for a moment as the blip of Rock 22 turned around and headed back to Hector, then signaled for the attention of the senior controller, a captain. “Sir, Rock 22 just passed on a spot report of six or seven Beowolves heading southeast near Detroit Lakes.” She tapped her screen as the captain bent over her shoulder. “He’s headed back to Hector.”

“Wasn’t Rock 22 the C-130 that made an emergency landing with a bad engine the other day?” The crew of Regency 26 had been up that day. 

“Yes, sir. They were air testing the new engine.”

The captain wondered where Hector had gotten C-130 engine parts, but it was one of the covert bases, so there was no telling what they had stashed there. “That’s the first GRIMM sighting we’ve had in over a week,” he mused. Then he nodded to her. “Contact Beacon and let them know.”

“Sir, they’re not on scope. Rock 22 reported them at two or three thousand feet AGL, but I’ve got nothing.”

The captain shrugged. “Maybe the Herky crew saw birds or something. Anyway, we can’t let it go. Contact Beacon and let them know. They haven’t been running a CAP since La Crosse, but they might want to, even with the big 1V1 fight today.”

“Yes, sir.” Cummings thumbed a switch to open a channel to Beacon. Out of the corner of one eye, she saw the blip that was Rock 22 disappear as it approached Hector. She thought she saw something else, but it faded in and out of contact. Then she heard a call from Army ground radar on the Eberle Line and picked up two new slow contacts heading south from Minnesota.

_Ten Miles North of the Eberle Line_

_Near Lake Park, Iowa, United States of Canada_

_13 May 2001_

Sienna Khan sat in a jumpseat behind the two pilots and adjusted her headset. The inside of the SH-3H Sea King helicopter was loud, and she had to turn up the volume to hear. She glanced out the open door of the helicopter. Another Sea King was only a hundred feet away, a third behind them, and the ground below was closer than that. As she watched, the helicopters began to climb. She took a deep breath. Now they had to trust in Arthur Watts.

“Unidentified aircraft, Lake Park. Identify yourselves.” The voice on the radio was strong and authoritative. 

Sienna heard Adam Taurus answer. Since his Moonslice would be picked up by the AWACS, he had joined the ground attack. “Lake Park, this is Black Sabre. Our signal is Rainbow, repeat, Rainbow.”

“Black Sabre, Lake Park. Authentication.”

Sienna found herself holding her breath. Black Sabre and Rainbow were two codes Watts had extracted from the computers at Hector—codes for Army Long-Range Reconnaissance Patrols that entered the Dead Zones on occasion. If they got the authentication wrong, the next message would likely be a Patriot surface to air missile. The raid to recover Roman Torchwick was based on the hope that Watts’ hacked codes would work, and that the SAM crews on the Eberle Line were complacent—after all, the only enemy that ever came south from the Minnesota Dead Zone were GRIMM. “Authenticate Alpha Lima Sierra,” Adam radioed.

There was a few seconds of silence, and Sienna closed her eyes. If they were going to die, so be it; there were worse ways to go than as a martyr to the cause, though she would personally like to die killing some Schnees, not rescuing a damned air pirate she didn’t like anyway. “Black Sabre, Lake Park. Authentication acknowledged. Identify.”

“Lake Park, Black Sabre is three helicopters, destination Sioux City.” This was another chance: Adam had considered that the Sea Kings were older helicopters, usually used by the Navy; actually identifying themselves might raise some eyebrows. 

The gamble paid off. “Roger, Black Sabre. Cleared through.”

Sienna let her breath out, and she heard the six White Fang operatives in the cabin do the same. A few minutes later, they passed over the Eberle Line. It was little more than a ten-foot wide elevated berm, with a two-lane road behind it, but in the distance they could spot bunkers built where farming communities still dotted the landscape. An observation tower passed by, and the two men inside waved at the helicopters as they passed by. One of the strike team waved back: all of them were wearing fatigues captured at Hector. Each helicopter was painted a dark gunship gray, with subdued US markings. Army helicopters were almost always UH-60 Blackhawks or UH-1N Hueys, but Sienna hoped that the soldiers would simply assume that someone up the chain of command knew why a supposed Army group was flying Navy helicopters. Eventually, someone would ask the right questions, but by that time the White Fang would’ve either succeeded or died.

The Eberle Line fell away behind them, and the landscape became the rolling farmlands of northern Iowa, rather than the wild, overgrown prairies of southern Minnesota. The two helicopters began curving to the southwest. As a small, brown river slid past beneath them, Sienna splayed her hands towards the strike team. Each one grabbed a white mask from their backpacks and put it on. 

The helicopter crews spotted a copse of trees and landed next to it. “Go, go!” Sienna ordered, and both strike teams piled off the Sea Kings almost as soon as the wheels touched the ground. She disconnected her headset and followed them out. Both helicopters then rose back into the air and resumed their flight roughly to the southwest, but much slower this time. The third, which had not landed, followed them. 

Sienna crouched in the wheat, counted off her people to make sure they were all present, then waved them forward. They moved through the wheat at a quick run, until they reached a two-lane highway. Sienna stopped next to a highway sign showing this to be US Highway 18. 

Adam did the same. He was wearing fatigues like the rest of them, but his sword was strapped to his back, although he carried a carbine. Sienna carried a scoped rifle on her back. “Let’s hope Watts’ information was good,” she told him.

“Indeed.” They had agreed to wait no longer than half an hour for the convoy. After that, they would retreat back to Minnesota; the Eberle Line’s defenses and radar faced north, and the AWACS would have other things on its mind by then. 

“All right. Remember the plan, Adam,” Sienna told him. She saw a slight rise and another group of trees. “That will be my position. You hold on the opposite side of the road—there you are.” The last was addressed to Ilia Amitola, who emerged puffing from the wheatfield. “Sorry,” she said. “I damn near stepped on a snake back there.”

“A rattlesnake?” Adam asked.

“No idea. I didn’t stop to ask.” 

“Right,” Sienna continued. “Ilia, hold here. Once the convoy is stopped, get Roman as quick as you can. He’s probably going to be in the middle. Signal if you see him.”

“Yes, High Leader.” Ilia motioned her six-man group back into the wheat and disappeared.

Sienna quickly ran across the road, up the rise, and threw herself down behind the rise. She unstrapped the rifle and her pack, balanced the rifle on her pack as an ersatz bipod, and sighted in the scope. She then put a cover over the scope so the sunlight would not reflect on it, and waited as Adam’s team took up position in front of her.

“So who do you think Michael Vick is going to this year?” Sergeant Ryan Hofer asked the driver of the HMMWV. 

“Santa Fe. Unless Atlanta trades up for him.” The driver eased off the gas a little. “Jesus, I wish these cops would pick a speed. They keep speeding up and slowing down.”

“Where are we?” asked Roman Torchwick from the back seat. Next to him was a Security Forces trooper, who kept a wary eye on him. They had stopped in Prairie du Chien for the night, and Torchwick cooled his heels in county lockup, watched by both local police and one of the men in the HMMWV. He dozed since they got up this morning, as there wasn’t much to see in northern Iowa.

“What do you care?” asked the driver.

Hofer decided to be neighborly. “About an hour or so out of Sioux City, man.”

“Going the long way around, are we?”

Hofer didn’t answer him. They were taking the long way around to a certain extent: Beacon to Prairie du Chien, then to Clear Lake, then across to Sioux City, where they would pick up Interstate 29 through Omaha to St. Joseph, then across the Missouri to Leavenworth. Des Moines would be too difficult to get a convoy through; as it was, they’d had to notify local law enforcement for the whole way to get escorts. At the moment, it was two Iowa Highway Patrol cars ahead and behind the three HMMWVs. 

He glanced down at the map. They were between two towns, Sanborn and Hartley. He then checked his watch. “At least we’re making good time. We’re ten minutes ahead of schedule.”

Sienna rested her head on her pack, but then she raised it. Her ears, sharper than a human’s, detected cars. So far there had been none, but as it was a lazy Sunday morning, it didn’t surprise her. She pulled out a pair of binoculars and looked. It was a convoy of two police cars, the silver of the Iowa Highway Patrol, and three camouflaged HMMWVs. “That’s them,” she whispered in amazement. “Well, I’ll be damned.” She set aside the binoculars and pulled out a whistle, and blew three short blasts. Then she popped off the cover on her scope and settled the sight on the first police car. 

“I just hope the Chiefs pick someone decent this year,” Hofer said, but then he saw a glint off and to the left. “Hey, did you see that?”

Sienna slowly blew out her breath and pulled the trigger. The rifle cracked, the stock going back into her shoulder. She was already chambering a new round.

The bullet traveled the distance between her position and the first police car in less than a second. It went through the windshield and caught the driver in the left eye. As he died, his hands spasmodically jerked the steering wheel to the left. The car skidded and then flipped over onto one side, blocking the road. The convoy hit the brakes, but then the second police car exploded. One of Adam’s team decided not to show much in the way of finesse, and a lot more in overkill: he fired a Javelin into it. The flaming wreckage coasted into the back of the last HMMWV.

“What the _fuck!”_ Hofer shouted, reaching down to grab his M4. “What the hell just happened?”

Torchwick stared out the window. Something flickered in the wheatfield; something familiar. 

Sienna fired into the windshield of the first HMMWV: the windows were not armored, but bullet-resistant, and it slowed down her bullet enough that the driver’s helmet, rather than his skull, took the worst of it. She mouthed a curse, then smiled as she saw a smoke grenade roll out of the wheatfield to the left. It went off beneath the middle HMMWV, releasing a cloud of red smoke. 

“He’s in the middle one!” Adam shouted. Another Javelin was fired into the third HMMWV, which was backing up, knocking back the burning wreck of the police car, but now it too was blown apart, further blocking the road to the rear. Sienna shot the driver of the first one again; this time her bullet hit him in the face, knocking him woozy. The SF man riding shotgun tried to grab the wheel and drive out of the ambush, but two of the White Fang rolled grenades beneath the HMMWV. The explosions didn’t destroy the hardy vehicle, but they crippled it and set it afire. 

“Oh shit! Oh fuck!” Hofer screamed. He raised the M4, but if he opened the door or tried to get out through the roof, he was a dead man. Already there were men and women coming out of the wheatfield, wearing masks, and surrounding the HMMWV. “Oh, Holy God! White Fang!”

“Oh dear,” Torchwick said, smiling. “It seems this is a rescue.”

“You shut the fuck up! Bobby, put a gun to the fucker’s head!” The SF trooper next to Torchwick pulled out a pistol and put it to Torchwick’s temple. 

“We’re fucked, dude,” the driver groaned. 

“The hell we are! Floor it!” A bullet hole appeared in the windscreen, and a bullet thudded into the driver’s shoulder. He yelled in pain and blood flowed out from between his fingers as he gripped it. 

“Men in the vehicle!” Hofer turned and saw a red-haired man wreathed in the smoke. “Step out immediately! If you do so, you will not be killed!”

“Sarge, we gotta do it!” Bobby exclaimed. He kept the pistol against Torchwick’s head nonetheless.

“They’re White Fang! They’ll fucking kill us anyway!” Hofer pulled a dressing out the glove compartment and started bandaging the driver’s shoulder. He flinched when another bullet hit the top of the windscreen; where it ended up, he didn’t know. 

“I know these people,” Torchwick said calmly. “They won’t kill you.” He pointed at the second bullet hole. “They have a sniper out there. I imagine those are warning shots. The next one will kill one of you.” He smiled at Bobby. “Come on, man. They don’t pay you enough to die.” They all heard a thump from the door next to Bobby. “I would imagine that’s a satchel charge. They’ll blow the door off, and then you, Bobby, will be dragged out and probably flayed alive.” He stared at him. “They’ll listen to me.”

“All right. All right.” Bobby went to open the door.

“Bobby, do _not_ fucking open that door!” Hofer warned.

“I’m doing it, man!” Bobby opened the door slightly, tossed out his pistol, and raised his hands. “We’re coming out!” He opened the door fully, and hands reached in and pulled him out. Hofer let out a horrific string of curse words, then did the same. He tossed out the M4 and came out with his hands behind his head. 

Ilia saw the sergeant step out of the vehicle and dropped her camouflage; she had been creeping up to the side with a small ball of plastic explosive to try and disable the locks. “Stand still! Keep your hands behind your head!” One of the White Fang drew a wicked looking curved blade, but Ilia snapped at him. “Leave him be!”

“He’s a human!” the Faunus answered.

“I said leave him be!” she shouted. The White Fang pulled back. She kicked the M4 aside, then reached forward and pulled his pistol out of his holster. “Strip him of his body armor and helmet,” Ilia ordered, and two burly White Fang threw Hofer against the HMMWV. He submitted to the none too gentle stripping, and watched as Torchwick was let out of the back seat. He shrugged at the sergeant. “I’m sorry our trip has come to an end, Sergeant Hofer,” Torchwick said. “It was fun while it lasted.”

“Fuck you,” Hofer growled, which earned him a punch in the face. 

Once his helmet and body armor were gone, along with a knife he had in his boot and the keys to Torchwick’s cuffs, Ilia ordered him to lay on the pavement, face down, hands out to either side. The cuffs landed next to him, and the scene was illuminated by a flare. 

Torchwick walked around the HMMWV, massaging his wrists. “Well, hello there, Adam.”

Adam Taurus had Bobby, the wounded driver, and the four men from the first HMMWV on the side of the road. Of the first HMMWV’s crew, one was unconscious, and the other three were burned; they had opened their doors rather than burn to death. He smiled at Torchwick. “Long time no see.”

“Well done operation. I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t,” Adam grinned. “But your girlfriend just wouldn’t stop talking about you.”

“Neo? Where is she?”

“Around.” He called out to Ilia. “All of them out?”

“Yes, Adam.”

“Good.” Sienna jogged up to them, rifle and backpack back on. They could hear the helicopters approaching. “What should we do with the prisoners, High Leader?”

“They did treat me decently,” Torchwick said. Though he’d been known to kill prisoners himself, he’d only done so to get ransom paid faster, and never wounded people. He didn’t particularly like doing it. 

Sienna ignored him. “They don’t have anything we need. Strip them of usuable gear and weapons and kill them. We don’t have time for anything elaborate.”

“Wait!” Bobby screamed. His helmet had been pulled off by a White Fang, who was now wearing it as a trophy. “You said—“ Adam drew his sword and cut his throat in a single stroke. The man clutched at the wound as blood sprayed out, hitting Torchwick in the face, then he fell over, twitched twice, and died. 

Ilia drew her knife from her belt. Hofer closed his eyes as he felt the cold steel against his temple, then couldn’t help but cry out as he felt the blade slice through his forehead. Blood poured down his face, and he jumped as a pistol went off. To his surprise, however, the bullet hit the pavement next to him.

“Stay very still.” He heard Ilia’s voice, low and quiet, and felt her hands wiping blood off his face. “It’s a head wound. It will bleed, but you won’t die. Don’t move. Right now I’m using your blood to draw a White Fang symbol. Stay still; you’re supposed to be dead. Don’t talk. If you understand me, move your left index finger.” He moved it just a little. “Good. We’re leaving. Wait at least ten minutes after you hear the helicopters take off. Don’t use the radio for thirty minutes; your transmissions will be intercepted and they’ll come back and kill you.” She wiped off more blood. “Tell Beacon an attack is coming soon, within the next few days.” He felt her kneel down next to him and take his high school ring off. “I’m looting your body so they don’t suspect. Goodbye, Sergeant. I’m sorry I couldn’t save all of you.”

Then she was gone.

Torchwick followed Adam into the wheatfield, feeling sick to his stomach. All eight men from the HMMWVs were dead; he supposed it was a mercy that they were simply shot in the back of the head. One of the Iowa troopers had survived the crash of the first car; he was killed as well. Torchwick had seen Ilia using the blood of Sergeant Hofer to smear a crude White Fang symbol on the side of the HMMWV; others had done the same thing. Still, he supposed, it was better than being on the way to Leavenworth, or being tortured somewhere.

The two helicopters landed and Torchwick was pulled into the first, behind Sienna. They were on the ground for only seconds before they took off again. He slipped on a headset. “How did you find me?” he asked her.

“Doctor Watts,” she shouted back. “The Army notified local law enforcement where the convoy would be going. He was able to piece together your route by hacking into the Iowa Highway Patrol.”

“The timing—“

“He added up what he thought would be average driving times, stopping for lunch, dinner, that sort of thing.” Sienna grinned, which was somewhat frightening. “He guessed!”

“Good guess,” Torchwick said. “Hope he’s got some more magic up his sleeve, because we’re going to be shot down in about five minutes when we hit the Eberle Line.”

Sienna was worried about that as well. “That’s where your girlfriend comes in!”

_Regency 26 (E-3A AWACS)_

_Eberle Line Track 2, Near Valentine, Nebraska, United States of Canada_

_13 May 2001_

Cummings watched her radar return. “Hey,” she nudged the controller sitting next to her. “Are you seeing this?”

“Those three contacts that keep wandering around western Iowa?”

“Yeah. They’re supposed to be Army helicopters, but they’re acting kind of weird.”

The other controller nodded. “We should let the senior controller know—wait, what the hell is _that?”_

Cummings looked at her scope. It was the same flickering, as if the AWACS’ radar was having trouble locking on, but then the contact firmed up. “Unidentified aircraft at Chamberlain Waypoint, this is Regency 26, identify—“ Suddenly she was thrown out of her seat to the floor of the fuselage as the AWACS heeled over on its left wing, then she had to grab for the side of the console as it dived. “Hold on to something!” the senior controller yelled. 

“Yeah, no shit!” Cummings screamed. “What the hell is going on?” Given the practical impossibility of bailing out of an E-3, there was a good chance she was about to die, but all she could feel was annoyance. 

The other controller had managed to keep his seat. “We’re spiked!”

“Who the hell is shooting at us?”

Twelve miles away, Neo sighed. She could see the AWACS twisting and diving away from where she locked onto it. She’d come down from Hector at low level, trusting on the ground return and the F-22’s stealth to keep the AWACS from getting a good lock. At the right time—when, with any luck, Sienna Khan’s strike force would have rescued Roman—she popped up, locked her radar onto the E-3, and opened the Raptor’s weapon doors, which was more than enough to establish her on radar. She didn’t press the trigger, though she wanted to: the AWACS was easy meat for any of her weapons. Still, she held fire, remembering Adam Taurus’ advice. A raid to free Roman Torchwick would lead to the US military looking for them, but it would be relatively low priority. Shooting down an AWACS would cause the military to suspend Vytal Flag and comb every inch of the Dead Zones. Sienna had taken a chance on Roman; Neo would return the favor.

She idly kept her radar fixed on the AWACS, then she fired a Sidewinder—well out of range and out of parameters, but enough that the E-3 crew would see the missile plume. Then she closed up the missile doors, turned, pushed the throttle up, and headed due northwest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some research on this (which, among other things, ensures I'll never be elected to Congress) and talked to a friend who is former USAF Security Forces. Apparently, the pre-Second Gulf War HMMWVs were only bullet-resistant rather than bulletproof, so Sienna's sniper shots would not have been insta-kills. Still, there's probably some suspension of disbelief here, and I hope my readers will forgive anything I got wrong.
> 
> And yes, the Atlanta Falcons really did trade up in 2001 to get Michael Vick.


	71. Shatter Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yang vs. Mercury in 1V1 combat. And Yang doesn't know that it's a trap.
> 
> The downhill slide begins...

_Yooper Air Combat Range_

_Michigan, United States of Canada_

_13 May 2001_

Yang maintained a spread formation with Mercury. They would stay that way until Range Control cleared them in to begin their fight. In a level, spread formation, neither would have the advantage. As soon as Range Control called that the fight was on, Yang intended to grab altitude, and force Mercury to fight in the vertical, on her terms. The F-16 was better in close-range knife fights, but the F-15 ruled supreme in the vertical plane. Of course, Yang mused to herself, Mercury was smart enough to realize that as well. _Don’t underestimate him,_ she told herself. It was a bad habit of hers.

“Yang, Mercury, this is Beacon. Go to Channel Three.” Yang did so, curious. They were usually on Guard, so their radio transmissions could be heard by the people on the ground and edited for broadcast. Channel Three was restricted. She checked in as soon as she made the radio change. “Be advised GRIMM were sighted over the Minnesota Dead Zone,” the controller at Beacon radioed. “Nothing big, but enough to issue an advisory. Their last course would put heading southwest, but they could turn towards you.”

“Great,” Mercury replied, “and we’re up here unarmed. What are we supposed to use, bad language?”

“If GRIMM should move into Yooper, you are to disengage and head south. Cardinal Flight is on alert five, and they will take care of the problem. Acknowledge.” Both did, and switched back to Guard frequency. 

They flew on in silence for another few minutes, and then Range Control came on. “Good morning, lady and gentleman. We are set up for a 1V1 hop. Hard deck for this hop is 1000 feet AGL. This is a visual only engagement, so only heats and guns. Mercury, you will approach from the north; Yang, from the south. Yang, assume holding pattern present location. Mercury, maintain heading and we’ll tell you when to turn around at 20 miles. Good luck, folks. Range Control out.”

Yang and Mercury exchanged one final look at each other, and then she made a lazy turn, setting up a circling holding pattern while he accelerated out of sight. She held the stick between her knees as she tightened up her straps and mask. Then she tried to control her breathing as adrenaline flooded her system. She flexed her fingers on the stick and throttle, and her toes inside her boots. _Come on, come on!_ she thought. _Let’s do this!_

“Range Control: fight’s on.”

Yang immediately slammed the throttle forward and pulled the stick into her lap, climbing hard into the spotless blue sky. She throttled back and leveled out at 25,000 feet, then rolled out upside down, pulling the nose down slightly. “Where are you, you son of a bitch…” she said aloud, though she kept her finger off the radio button. Her eyes weren’t quite as good as Ruby’s, but they were still superb. She caught movement, and then saw the F-16 streaking across the forested hills. Mercury was in a straight line, probably expecting her to do the same, though he should’ve detected her by radar if nothing else. _Not paying attention, Merc?_ Then he must have spotted her, because the F-16 suddenly made a hard left break. Yang opened the throttle again and dived, quickly closing the distance. She saw that he was only a little bit above the hard deck, which meant he might be trying to sucker her into going below it, and get an easy “maneuevering kill.” _Not today, you little prick,_ Yang thought, and skidded in behind him, still well above the hard deck. She centered the gunsight on his engine, but then Mercury broke hard right, forcing her into an overshoot.

“Nice try,” she said, and Yang threw _Ember Celica_ into a high-speed yo-yo, trading speed for altitude, and still ending up behind him. She edged closer to him as he went into a left break, then suddenly reversed back into her. Yang did the same, the two passed close enough to see each other in their respective cockpits, then reversed again—going into a horizontal rolling scissors. _Dammit, Yang!_ she yelled at herself. _Quit playing his game! This is what he’s good at!_ The F-15 was twice as heavy as the F-16, and though it could turn well, Mercury could pull it tighter. Sooner or later, he was going to get inside, and it would be all over but the bragging.

“Okay, fuck this,” Yang spoke, and as they crossed each other for the fifth time in as many seconds, she disengaged and climbed, then almost immediately rolled out in an Immelmann and pointed the nose down. Mercury had been surprised by the sudden climb, realized Yang was about to be in a perfect position for a diving gun pass that would stich his F-16 from stem to stern, and made another hard right break, cheating the turn so tight that she couldn’t keep the gunsight on him. She came out of the dive, rolled to kill some of her forward momentum, and went into a lag pursuit, bleeding off speed as much as she dared. It was working: she had ended up in one of the F-16’s few blind spots, and Mercury couldn’t see her. Her gunsight pipper centered on the other fighter’s exhaust pipe, and she caressed the trigger—but before the gun could fire, Mercury had shot upwards in a hard climb. 

Yang grinned, because even if it had ruined her sight picture, he was now entering her territory: the vertical plane. She climbed after him, shouting “Now you done fucked up, boy!” But then Mercury, still in the climb, rolled towards her, forcing her to do the same, and now they were in a _vertical_ rolling scissors. Once more, the F-16’s smaller size was working against Yang: Mercury would not lose speed in the vertical any more than she would, but he could still turn tighter. As Yang grunted with exertion, trying to stay level with the F-16, she knew both were slowing down, flirting with a stall. But she wasn’t afraid: Yang’s School of Dirty Tricks was now in session. The people watching on TV were going to get one hell of a show.

Fighting against the G-forces, Yang reached out and opened her speedbrake. The big metal slab on the F-15’s spine opened, instantly slowing her down. Mercury ended up out in front, and as Yang retracted the speedbrake, he dived away. It was really his only chance, but even that was a mistake: she let _Ember Celica_ fall backwards, rolled, and caught Mercury in the dive, heading for the hard deck. Yang was pushed back into her seat as she hit her afterburners, rapidly closed the distance, then throttled back. The pipper was on the curved back of the F-16. “Boom-shaka-laka!” Yang crowed on the radio, and pulled the trigger. “Yang, guns, guns, guns!”

She’d expected nothing but silence for three seconds; pulling the trigger just activated the gun camera that would display Mercury getting simulated killed for the world to see. She was startled by the vibration she felt through the stick, and to her horror, she saw cannon shells— _her_ cannon shells—marching from the refueling port in the spine of the F-16 to its engine. Flames instantly erupted from the other fighter, and the tail separated as it pitched upwards. Yang instantly pulled her finger from the trigger, but the damage was done: the F-16 was finished, already stalling out. The canopy blew off and she saw Mercury eject; Yang pulled off to the left, afraid she’d run over him. 

“Oh my God!” Yang screamed. “Vytal Flag, knock it off, knock it off! Mercury’s down! Mercury’s down!”

“Range Control, Vytal Flag, knock it off,” the controller echoed. There were no other aircraft up, but it was to let Beacon know. “Yang, what happened?”

“I don’t know!” she yelled. “Got a good chute—Range Control, scramble SAR!” She watched the remains of the F-16 disappear into the forest and explode. She flew past the fireball to get a better look at Mercury. He was dangling in the parachute, and there was no response. “Range Control, Mercury’s not responding. Going down at…” she consulted the map in her right kneepad “…grid square 54-40.”

“Roger that, Yang. Remain on station.”

“Understood, Range. Assuming RESCAP.” Yang orbited the parachute and jazzed her throttles, deliberately surging the engine to try and get Mercury’s attention. His body looked intact, but injuries were depressingly common in any ejection. _Oh God,_ she thought, _what if his neck’s broken? What the fuck happened? I’m not supposed to have live rounds! Why didn’t Yorse tell me?_ She slammed a fist on the side of the cockpit. _Because you didn’t ask, you stupid ass. You didn’t even check._ They had been flying without live rounds for a week, and it had become instinctual not to look. She saw the round counter on her HUD; were the ammunition drum empty, it would’ve read zero. It read 310. _What the hell happened?_

“Yang, this is Jehovah.” Yang closed her eyes for a minute. Ozpin. “RTB as soon as Cardinal is on station.”

“Roger,” she replied. She watched as Mercury’s parachute disappeared into the forest. Frantically, she called out for him to come up on his survival radio, or on his beeper, but there was only silence.

Yang landed at Beacon and taxied to her hardstand. She saw a camera crew standing next to the hardstand, as well as several Security Forces keeping the newspeople back. _They know,_ she thought. _Of course. The camera pod was sending out that shit live._ She touched the brakes and shut off the engines, then sat in the cockpit for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts. She didn’t like Mercury Black, but she hadn’t wanted him dead. On the way back to Beacon, she’d heard the rescue crews calling for Mercury, but there was still nothing. Parajumpers would begin looking for him, as the wind might have carried him further in the forest.

There was no more putting it off, so Yang opened the canopy and began to unstrap as Sergeant Yorse placed the ladder and climbed up. She looked at him. “What happened, Sarge? Why did I have live rounds?”

“Captain, you ordered me to load live rounds.” Yorse had anticipated his pilot’s question, and handed her the form. “You signed off on it. So did Captain Ozpin.”

“I didn’t sign shit!” Yang exclaimed. “What the fuck!” She just stopped herself from grabbing him, remembering the cameras pointed at her. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you signed for it!” Yorse protested. “I figured you already knew! Why would I tell you what you already knew? For God’s sake, Captain, didn’t you check?”

“No,” Yang admitted quietly.

“Captain, you got to come down. There’s cops down there waiting for you.” He looked past her to where another car had just pulled up. “There’s Captain Ozpin.”

“Shit,” she breathed, then finished unstrapping. It made perfect sense. Complacency: Yorse assumed she knew, since she’d signed off on loading live rounds, and she never checked, because she assumed everything was going as usual. She followed Yorse down the ladder, then Yang took off her helmet, shook out her hair, and put the helmet in its bag. Two of the air police walked towards her, and Yang saw that one was already getting out handcuffs. 

Ozpin hobbled over there first, however. He dropped his voice. “Put those away, man!” he said to the policeman. “She’s not under arrest.”

“Sir, I was ordered by General Ironwood to detain Captain Long—“

“To _detain,”_ Ozpin emphasized. “Not arrest. And I command here, not General Ironwood.” The man nodded and put away the handcuffs, and Ozpin turned his attention to Yang. 

“Sir—“ Yang began.

“Not right now. Let’s get away from these cameras.” Ozpin sighed. “Captain Long, until a court of inquiry can be convened, you are to be confined to quarters. You will be guarded. If you leave without authorization, you will be arrested and put in the brig. Sergeant Yorse, you will be permitted to finish postflighting Captain Long’s aircraft, then you will also be confined to quarters. Do both of you undertand?”

“Yes, sir.” Yang came to attention and saluted. “Sir, I don’t know—“

“Save it, Captain,” Ozpin said tiredly. “Save it. Ironwood and I will be by later to talk to you. I’ll give you a ride back to the barracks.” He started walking back to the car.

“Oh God.” Yang knew her career was probably over. At the least, she’d be found guilty of negilgence. And if Mercury was dead, it could end up as manslaughter. She would never be able to fly again; even if she got out of the USAF, no airline would have her, and she knew an airliner would never be able to match up to the F-15. She began to cry, but then remembered the cameras were on her, and angrily wiped away the tears. Yorse pressed the form into her hands. “Captain,” he said, and she turned to him. “Keep the faith. Maybe it’ll be okay.”

“Yeah.” But Yang knew it would never be okay again.


	72. Nowhere To Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Yang and Ruby Flight deal with the fallout from the dogfight with Mercury, Nora and Pyrrha finally open the package that Ruth Lionheart left for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the delay in getting new chapters out. With everything that's going on the world, it's hard to keep track some days. I'll really try to get more out as we ramp up to the Battle of Beacon.

_Building 91213 (Female Officers’ Quarters)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_13 April 2001_

James Ironwood walked down the hallway to Ruby Flight’s quarters. It was easy enough to find: there was a Security Forces air policeman stationed outside of it. He came to attention as the general reached the room. He nodded to the policeman, then entered the room. 

The room was full. Ozpin was sitting at the room’s desk, while Ruby Flight were sitting on Weiss’ and Blake’s beds. Ironwood noticed the flight had separated: Weiss and Blake were opposite the two sisters, and Ruby had an arm around Yang. Zwei sat next to her, sensing her depression and trying to alleviate it. The window was open, letting in a cool breeze as afternoon became evening.

“Lieutenant Rose, Oberleutnant Schnee, Captain Belladonna,” Ironwood addressed them. “I would like to speak with Captain Long alone, along with Captain Ozpin.”

Ruby got to her feet, came to attention, and defiantly faced Ironwood. “Sir, with respect. We’re not going anywhere. She’s part of our flight. We want to know what happened more than you do.”

Ironwood hesitated, but only for a moment. “Your loyalty is noted. All right. Maybe you can help with this, then.” He got the room’s only other chair, turned it around, and sat down. “Captain Long, let’s start with this: what the hell happened out there?”

“I don’t know,” Yang said quietly. “We were in the furball. He came out of the vertical and went for the hard deck. I caught him and went to guns. I called it and pulled the trigger so the gun camera would get the film. And next thing I know, I’m blasting away.” She stared into space. “It happened so fast…I don’t know why it happened.”

“I do,” Ironwood said. “You had live rounds loaded onto your F-15, in contravention of standing orders during this segment of Vytal Flag.”

Yang suddenly shot to her feet. Zwei yelped and almost fell to the floor. She went over to the dresser, grabbed the half-wadded up form, stalked over to the general, and thrust it at him. “Look at this,” she demanded, and stood there.

“Captain Long, sit your ass down or I’ll tack on insubordination to the charges you already face.” Ironwood stared Yang down, and she went back to the bed. He smoothed out the form, and his eyebrows went up in surprise. “You signed this, and so did…”

“Me,” Ozpin finished, the first time he’d spoken since Ironwood walked in. “Which is rather interesting, since I don’t recall ever signing such a document.”

“Me neither,” Yang added. 

Ironwood ran a finger over his stubble; he was thinking of growing a beard, though it was likely to come out gray, the way his week was going. “Captain Long, grab a piece of paper and sign your name to it.” Yang nodded, tore a sheet out of one of Weiss’ notebooks lying on the bed, and scrawled her name. Ozpin walked over and signed his name below hers, then handed the sheet to Ironwood. He compared the signatures. “They’re identical,” he said. “But you don’t remember signing it.”

“I think what you’re looking at, James, is a very clever forgery.”

Ironwood put both pieces of paper on the floor, so they could all see it. “All right. Let me play devil’s advocate, because there’s going to be a court of inquiry, and they’ll ask the same question. Who would forge your signatures, and why?”

“The logical suggestion would be someone who wanted to frame Captain Long for the murder of Mercury Black.”

Weiss spoke up. “They found his body?”  
“No,” Ironwood replied. “CSAR is still looking, but they didn’t find him or the parachute. They found the wreckage—what was left of it. It’s a big forest, so the body might’ve been blown some distance. The other possibility is that it fell into the fireball.”

“No way,” Yang said. “I tracked him until he went into the woods.”

“We’ll find the body. Let’s not get distracted here,” Ozpin told them. “Who would want to frame you, Captain?” he asked Yang.

“I don’t know. I haven’t pissed anyone off that bad.”

“But you had motive.” Ironwood held up a hand. “Wait a second before you start telling me off. Remember, devil’s advocate. At the dance, you said, and I quote, ‘He says anything about my sister again, and I’ll kill the motherfucker.’ Probably forty people heard you say that, Captain, and every one of them will get called in as a witness. Including me.” He faced them. “None of you have been watching the news, I imagine, but you’ve made all the networks. And all the idiot talking heads are wondering if one of our pilots went berserk and killed another one, or this was just a revenge murder for one thing or another. And you, Yang Xiao Long…if you’re not a household name, you will be soon. Your camera pod was live, and it got some beautiful shots of you gunning down the F-16. And since you decided to yell ‘boom shaka laka’ over the open radio net, they picked that up, too.”

“Oh, fuck,” Yang moaned, and put her head in her hands. “Oh, fuck.”

“And since it’s a slow news week, everyone’s jumping on it. The only reason your phone isn’t ringing off the hook from CNN or Fox is because they don’t know it yet. I imagine it’s only a matter of time until they figure out where your dad lives and try to get an interview with him, and an even lesser amount of time before they dig up your past, and your dead mother. And then they get the shrinks out and, next thing you know, you’ve got repressed memories, PTSD, and an unstable fighter pilot who snapped under stress.”

“That’s not fair!” Ruby shouted. “That’s a damn lie!”

Ironwood stood and laughed humorlessly. “Of course it is. But what none of you realize is that the media of this country has always had a love-hate relationship with the military. They love us when we win and hate us the rest of the time. They blame us for the Third World War and they’ve never forgiven us for it.” He stabbed a finger at Ozpin. “When Oz got back from saving his fucking carrier and President Ford announced he was giving him the big Medal, some reporter came up to him and asked what it was like to kill someone.”

Ozpin chuckled. “I remember that. I had to explain to her that I had shot down GRIMM. She thought I had killed human beings. And she actually looked a little disappointed that I hadn’t.”

“If it bleeds, it leads,” Blake quoted. She knew that quote by heart: the White Fang had gotten adept at manipulating the media, and Sienna Khan knew how to get on network news herself. 

“Exactly. And now Vytal Flag is bleeding, and the media smells the blood in the water.” 

Ozpin sighed. “This was what I feared. Not this exactly,” he assured them, “but an accident of some kind. Instead of Vytal Flag being held up as a representation of what our military does, it becomes a bludgeon to use against us. It’s too expensive, it’s too dangerous, it invites GRIMM attacks, and so on.”

“It invites GRIMM attacks?” Weiss asked, raising an eyebrow. “That’s absurd.”

“But people believe it, Oberleutnant. There are many who believe GRIMM are attracted to negative energy.” Ozpin shrugged. “The media aside, we need to get to the bottom of this, and soon, if for no other reason than to clear Captain Long’s name. And mine. Someone framed us both, and we need to find out who.”

Ironwood nodded. “All right. In the meantime, however…and I’m sorry, Captain…you are confined to quarters. We’ll have your meals brought to you, and there will be a guard.”

“Isn’t that a bit much?” Blake asked.

“It’s for your protection as much as anything else,” Ironwood replied. “If the media is speculating, then so are other people. And we don’t want them coming up here.” He looked at the others. “Ruby Flight, you’re also grounded, for now. Your 1V1 round is over in any case. However, you’re not confined to quarters, and in theory not confined to base, but it won’t be long before the press figures out who all of you are—at the very least you, Ruby. My advice is to stick to the base until we figure out what the hell is going on.”

“I’m planning on doing that with everyone,” Ozpin said. “And to hell with what anyone thinks. There’s too many strange things happening here.” 

Ironwood and Ozpin headed for the door. Yang spoke before they reached it. “General Ironwood, Captain Ozpin…do you believe me?”

Both stopped. Ozpin nodded, and left. Ironwood said only, “I want to believe you,” and closed the door behind him.

They walked down the hallway. “This is a bad business,” Ozpin said lowly. “First Ruth Lionheart, now Mercury Black.”

“Someone’s got it in for Creamer Flight.” Ironwood rubbed his forehead. “It gets worse, Oz. I didn’t tell Ruby Flight, because they don’t need to know, but we found out who attacked the E-3 this afternoon.”

“Who?”

“The White Fang. It was a diversion. While we were chasing whatever locked up the AWACS, the convoy with Roman Torchwick was hit. He got away. There was only one survivor.”

“Good God,” Ozpin groaned. 

“Yeah. I’m having the survivor brought back here so we can debrief him.”

“Why would the White Fang rescue a human?”

“Torchwick knows something. They probably didn’t want him talking.”

“Then why take him alive? Why not kill him?”

“Fuck if I know, Oz. Maybe Sienna Khan’s his girlfriend.” Ironwood sighed. “Anyway, as you know, we scrambled F-16s of the 114th out of Sioux Falls. They never did find who did it, but the AWACS crew thinks they saw an all-red aircraft.”

“The red F-22 Ruby Flight saw over Minneapolis,” Ozpin said. “The White Fang found a new hideout.”

“Yeah. And there’s plenty of old abandoned airports in the Dakotas and Montana they could be hiding in. And because we lost AWACS coverage, and the Eberle Line was looking northwest, we lost the helicopters they were using as well. The wreckage of one helicopter was found north of Sioux City, so they probably headed northwest and slipped out somewhere in the Badlands.” Ironwood put out a hand to help Ozpin down the stairs, but he refused. “Anyway, I’ve notified Winnipeg and Hector to keep their eyes open. The Fang’s like a fucking hydra,” he said, unknowingly echoing Qrow. 

“And the GRIMM that were sighted over Minnesota?”  
“Nothing,” Ironwood returned. “But they could’ve headed north and gotten lost over the lakes up there.” 

Ozpin stopped on the landing. “Something’s not adding up, James. First Ruth Lionheart. Then Mercury Black. Now Roman Torchwick has been freed. Someone trying to frame Yang Xiao Long. Someone trying to make Vytal Flag look as bad as possible.”

“It adds up,” Ironwood disagreed. “The problem is, we don’t know what it adds up to.”

Pyrrha Nikos lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. _Make a decision,_ she told herself. _You have to make a decision._ She looked at her hands. She’d always thought her hands were too big and clumsy for a girl, but they weren’t big enough for the responsibility she was going to take on if she accepted Ozpin’s offer. Assuming she had a choice at all: she wondered, if she refused, if she would simply meet with an ‘accident’ in the near future. Something as secret as the Maidens would be much more protected if Pyrrha was in a grave somewhere.

The door to the room banged open, and Pyrrha nearly levitated into the ceiling. Nora Valkyrie didn’t notice. “Damn stupid Warthog!” she shouted, and kicked the door shut. “Making me late for my dinner date with Renny!”

“What’s wrong?” Pyrrha asked, glad for the distraction. Nora stripped down to her underwear, tossing fatigues left and right. Pyrrha blushed; Nora was wearing a thong that barely concealed anything, and the bra strained heroically against her bosom. 

“Boresighting the stupid gun!” Nora yelled. “The damn gun’s off kilter for some reason, and Chief thinks the aircraft’s keel might be warped from the damage it took!” Nora flung a skirt onto her bed. “They might have to scrap poor old _Magnhild!_ And where the fuck is my blouse I had picked out?”

Pyrrha walked over to Nora’s closet. She knew exactly which one her friend was looking for. “Here you are.”

“Oh. Where was it?”

“Hanging up in the closet.”

“What the hell was it doing there? Oh well. Thanks, Pyr.” She tugged on the skirt. “Socks, socks…” She opened her drawer and tossed a paper packet onto the bed. “C’mon, I need my good socks…”

“What’s this?” Pyrrha asked. She picked up the packet. It was addressed to Nora from Ruth Lionheart.

“Oh, yeah. Forgot I had that. I think Ruth left behind some porn for me.”

“It’s not heavy enough.” Pyrrha closed her eyes, because now it sounded like she knew how much pornography weighed.

Nora laughed as she put on her blouse. “Pyrrha! I’m proud of you!” She turned and looked in the mirror on her dresser. “Think I need to do my hair? You can open it up, if you want. I’m kind of afraid to, to be honest.”

Pyrrha’s curiosity got the better of her. She tore off the end of the envelope, and pulled out a series of photographs. They were stills from a gun camera film. A note fell out and onto the bed, in Ruth’s handwriting: 

_Hey, Nora. These are gun camera stills from Cinder’s F-15 during the Battle of La Crosse. She says she accidentally shot down Fox and Velvet. I don’t know if I believe her, or trust the other people in my flight besides Emerald. There’s just something off about them. It might’ve been deliberate, though I don’t know why Cinder would shoot down a friendly. Maybe she don’t like Faunus._

_If you’re reading this, I’ve I’ve bought the farm. Probably hit a tree or something; the ground has it in for me. Anyways, you can keep these and give them to Ozpin, or you can burn them. Whichever you think is best, but I thought someone should know._

_Your friend forevs,_

_Ruth_

Pyrrha felt ice in her stomach. “Nora, you need to look at these.”

Nora turned and her eyebrows beetled together in confusion. “What are those?” Then she read the note. “What the hell? That doesn’t make any sense. I mean, Cinder Fall is kind of a bitch, but this is a bit much. What was Ruth smoking?”

Pyrrha spread the prints out and looked over them with an experienced eye. “This isn’t accidental. It looks to me that Cinder was tracking them before she opened fire.”

“Sure, but…” Nora had enough experience with gun passes that she knew Pyrrha was right. “But why would she do it? I mean, if she’s got something against Faunus, why not go after….Ruth…” Her voice trailed off and she looked at Pyrrha in horror. “You don’t think…”

Pyrrha sat on the bed. It made no sense. If Cinder hated Faunus—and she’d never given any indication that she did, but Pyrrha had known bigots who kept it quiet—it was one thing to treat them like Cardin Winchester did, and another to resort to outright murder. But Ruth Lionheart’s death didn’t add up either. She had been young and in good shape; Pyrrha had jogged with her a few times. True, people in good shape dropped dead on occasion. Something still didn’t seem right. “I don’t know,” she said, putting the stills back in their envelope. “But I’m taking these to Ozpin. I need to talk to him anyway.” 

There was a knock on the door. “Come in!” Nora called out, and Ren and Jaune stuck their heads in. “Is everyone decent?” Ren asked, smiling. 

“I don’t have any pants on, but you can come in,” Nora grinned. To her surprise, Ren and Jaune both walked in. She turned a little red, and hastily put on her pants, though not before both men got a good look at her thong. Jaune turned away; Ren did as well, though he took a second longer. “Sorry,” Ren apologized. “We just preferred not to have a conversation in front of the guard on Ruby Flight’s door.”

“I know, right? Isn’t it creepy?” Nora stood and tucked her blouse into her pants. “Do you think…Yang killed Mercury?”

“She did say she’d kill him if he ever messed with Weiss or Ruby,” Jaune said.

“Still, Yang’s not the murdering type,” Ren put in. “I just don’t see her doing it.”

“Someone said it was an accident,” Pyrrha stated. She’d heard it from Coco Adel. 

“Yeah, but she wasn’t supposed to be carrying live rounds,” Jaune argued. “I mean, I never liked Mercury, but he didn’t deserve that.” He shrugged, seeing that he was in the minority. He hoped he was wrong, because he liked Yang immensely, but it didn’t look good. “Maybe her ground crew screwed up.”

“I need to go over to Captain Ozpin’s office,” Pyrrha said, changing the subject. “Jaune, do you want to come with me?”

“Sure! I’m not doing anything.” He waved to Nora and Ren, held the door open for Pyrrha, and they left.

Nora wiggled her eyebrows. “We’re alone,” she said suggestively.

Ren’s stomach growled in response. “We’re also hungry,” he replied.

Nora weighed her options: food or sex. Food won. Besides, she’d just gotten into her clothes. “You win this time, stomach,” she proclaimed. 


	73. In a Lifetime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Ruby Flight tries to reassure Yang, Pyrrha takes Ruth Lionheart's gun camera film to Ozpin--or would, if she wasn't distracted by her feelings for Jaune. With no idea where to turn, and no idea if she wants to have control of the Fall Maiden, Pyrrha goes to the one person that can understand...Amber herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a story takes you somewhere you didn't expect when you started. Originally, most of this chapter was going to be in Ozpin's office, as we build up to the Battle of Beacon. However, then a depressed Pyrrha decided to visit Amber, so Ozpin's office will have to wait until next time.

_Building 91213 (Female Officers’ Quarters)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_13 April 2001_

Yang stared at the door for awhile after Ironwood and Ozpin left. “Do _you_ guys believe me?” she asked, finally.

“Of course,” Ruby said instantly. “Somebody set you up.”

“As odd as it sounds,” Weiss told her, “I believe you as well, Yang.”

Blake did not answer, and Yang looked at her wingmate. “Blake?”

“Yang,” Blake said, not meeting her eyes, “we all know you’d do anything for any of us. Especially your sister.”

“Yeah, but…you think I did this?” Yang’s voice was hurt, heartbroken.

Blake stood, started to pace, but then just leaned against the dresser, staring at the setting sun. “I watched someone I cared about very much slowly go bad. It started with ‘accidents.’ Then it was only in self-defense. Pretty soon I realized that it wasn’t any of those things, but not soon enough. I didn’t want to see. I forced myself not to, until I no longer had a choice in the matter.” She faced Yang. “I don’t want to see that happen twice, Yang. Tell me to my face that you were surprised when this happened, and that all you felt was shock when you saw Mercury punch out. That you didn’t think ‘Good, it’s what the bastard deserved.’”

“God, no,” Yang said, shocked. “I mean, yeah, Mercury’s an asshole, but damn, Blake! I didn’t want him dead! I know what I said at the club, but my blood was up. He was nasty to Weiss and Ruby.”

Weiss stood as well. “Blake, if you’re going to hold Yang to account for what she said at the dance, then you’d better do the same to me. Because _I_ wanted to kill the motherfucker too.” They all looked at Weiss. It wasn’t just that she rarely cursed, it was that she always cursed in German. “What? I have a grasp of the American idiom too.”

Blake went over to Yang, sat down on the bed with her, and hugged her. “Then that’s good enough for me, Yang. I believe you. I just don’t want to see you go down the same path Ad—my friend did.”

Yang’s response was interrupted by a knock on the door. It opened, and Qrow Branwen stuck his head through the door. “Hey, can I come in?”

“Sure!” Ruby chirped. 

Qrow walked in and closed the door behind him. “Hey there, firecracker.” He held up two bags of McDonald’s. “Had dinner yet?”

“Not really hungry.”

“I call bullshit on that.” He inclined his head towards the door for the rest of them. “Would you guys mind if I talked to Yang alone?”

“Sure,” Blake said. “Come on, ladies. We should probably get something to eat ourselves.” Weiss followed Blake to the door, but as Ruby hesitated, the phone rang. They all stared at it for a moment, remembering Ironwood’s warning about the press, but finally Ruby grabbed it. She pitched her voice a little lower. “Ruby Flight, Captain Belladonna speaking.” Weiss bit her lip to keep from laughing, Yang covered her mouth with both hands, and Blake mouthed _What the hell?_ “Yes,” Ruby continued. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” She hung up the phone. “That was Ozpin,” she said, a little mystified. “Blake, he wants you to report to his office right away.”

“Did he actually think you were me?”

“He didn’t say anything.” 

Yang snickered. “Man, Ozpin _is_ distracted if he fell for that bullshit.”

“Well, I guess I’d better go see what he wants.” Blake waved as she opened the door. “See you later.”

“Come on, Weiss,” Ruby said, with a sidelong glance at Qrow and Yang. “I’ll buy you dinner from Shop.”

“That’s a first.” Weiss threw Yang a salute as she followed Ruby out.

Pyrrha’s stomach rumbled as she and Jaune walked towards Ozpin’s office. Jaune reached into his pocket, pulled out a candy bar, and broke it in half. “Want some?”

As a rule, Pyrrha ate very healthy. She rarely indulged in sweets, but this time she gratefully took the candy bar and devoured it. He ate his slowly. “You want to go by the O Club after we get done at the CO’s?” he asked.

“Let me think about it.” She held the packet to her chest, and seemed distracted.

“What’s in the envelope?”

Pyrrha thought about telling him, but decided it might be better if she didn’t. “I can’t tell you. It’s, um, classified.”

“Really?” She nodded. “Then can you tell me what’s been bugging you for the past day or so?” She looked at him, and Jaune shrugged. “Come on, Pyr. You’ve been moping around a lot lately. You didn’t even come to see Yang go up against Mercury.” Jaune blew out a breath. “Though maybe that was for the best.”

“I’m sorry,” she told him. “That’s classified too. Really.”

Jaune didn’t say anything for a few moments. “You know you’re the first person to really believe in me.” Once more, she stared at him. He laughed. “It’s true. Mom didn’t want me to join up. She said the Arcs had already given too much to France. My uncle told me that _when_ I washed out—not if, when—he’d give me a job at his vineyard. And then I got stuck ferrying fighters instead of flying them, and you know the rest. You saw something no one else did.” Pyrrha’s eyes widened as she felt his fingers touch, and then intertwine with hers. “So let me help you.”

She squeezed his hand, grateful for the contact. “Th…thank you, Jaune.” She knew she couldn’t tell him—Rissa Arashikaze’s warning echoing in her ears—but maybe he could help on a general level. “Jaune, do you believe in destiny?”

“You mean like predestination or that sort of thing?”

She laughed. “Not quite so metaphysical. But just that we all have something we are meant to do in this life.”

“That sounds pretty metaphysical.” Jaune stared at the sky for a moment. “I believe in God. I’m not much of a churchgoer, but I do pray when I can. So…yeah, I guess I believe in that.”

“I’m not sure if I still believe in God,” Pyrrha admitted. “We’ve had something of a love-hate relationship, I suppose. But I do think we’re meant to do something in our lives.”

“What brought this on?” Jaune asked.

Pyrrha looked down. “I can’t say. But let’s just say something has come up that stands in the way of my destiny—or _is_ my destiny. I don’t know.” She stopped, let go of his hand, and faced him. “If I do this thing, I will be given an incredible amount of power. I don’t know if I’m ready for that, Jaune. It’s not what I want, really. I want to just be a fighter pilot. No fame or fortune; just me. I even switched my citizenship to the United States to get away from all that celebrity in Greece. And now…”

“Then say no,” Jaune offered. “Whatever offer you’ve been given, just say no.”

“But if I do, I might be betraying everything I stand for!” She saw people’s heads turn, so she dropped her voice. “On one hand there’s duty. On the other there’s what I want. The Pyrrha Nikos I’m supposed to be would choose duty, but the Pyrrha Nikos I _want_ to be doesn’t care.”

He took her hands again, feeling their warmth. “Pyrrha, you will always choose duty. I know you. You always will.”

“Why?” Her eyes shined with tears.

“Because that’s who you are. You’re already a heroine.”

“But I don’t want to be, Jaune! I never wanted to be!” She shook her head, tore her hands away from his, and began to walk away. “You don’t understand. No one does!”

“Pyrrha!” Jaune called after her.

“Just leave me alone, Jaune!” She began sobbing, and ducked into the hospital, finding a bathroom to dry her eyes and compose herself. She half-hoped Jaune would follow her. He didn’t.

Blake, who was walking towards Ozpin’s office, heard Pyrrha’s shouts—others probably had too, but it was one place where Faunus hearing came in handy—and considered following her into the hospital. She slowed, also seeing the devastated look on Jaune’s face. She crossed the street and went up to him. “Jaune?” she asked. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Jaune said, in a shocked voice. “Pyrrha got angry at me, and I don’t even know why!”

“She’s been acting a little depressed lately.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Jaune agreed. “She just bit my head off, after she was rambling about destiny and power and being forced to choose. I don’t understand.” He looked at Blake. “Think I should go after her?”

Blake considered it, but then shook her head. “No…maybe let her cool off a bit. Pyrrha’s a good person, Jaune; she didn’t mean anything by it. She’ll probably come over and apologize later.”

“Yeah…I guess.” Jaune sighed. “I don’t get girls.”

Blake put a hand on his shoulder. “Jaune, _girls_ don’t get girls. I have to report to Ozpin. See you later.”

“How’s Yang?” Jaune asked.

“She’s…it’s all just a giant clusterfuck, my friend.”

“Yeah,” he said, sadly. “Tell me about it.”

Blake waved at him, then began jogging towards base headquarters. Jaune turned and began walking slowly back to his quarters.

Neither saw Cinder Fall walk casually into the hospital.

Pyrrha leaned over the sink, trying to get herself under control, her mind whirling with indecision. There was no one who could help. Jaune would try, but because she couldn’t tell him, he would fail. So would Ren or Nora. Ozpin and Ironwood would tell her to do her duty. She thought about Qrow Branwen, but she didn’t know him all that well, and wasn’t sure where he was, or even if he was still at Beacon.

And then she thought of Amber. 

Pyrrha knew she really wasn’t supposed to talk to the dying pilot without permission, but Amber was probably the only person in the world who knew what she was going through. She looked at the packet, but that could wait for now. Ozpin would understand, and if he didn’t, then to hell with him. Pyrrha was getting tired of being everyone’s pawn.

She dried her eyes, straightened her uniform, and left the women’s bathroom. She then walked briskly down the hall to the head doctor’s office. On the way back from their meeting in Amber’s room, Ozpin had mentioned that only himself, Glynda Goodwitch, and the head doctor had access. If he was gone, Pyrrha would just go to Ozpin’s office.

Dr. Christopher Thomas was still there, though he was getting ready to head home. His door was open, and she hesitantly knocked on it. He looked up. “Oh, hello there, Major Nikos.”

She walked into his office and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Doctor Thomas, I know this is highly irregular, but…may I see Amber?”

Thomas stared back at her. “That is irregular indeed. Why?”

“Just to talk.”

Thomas gave it some thought. He didn’t know why exactly access to Amber Tardor was so restricted; it was on a need-to-know basis. But he knew that Pyrrha Nikos had met Amber before, and that the poor girl liked having someone there to talk to. Most of the time, she was alone; even Thomas only saw her when he had to administer medication five times a day. “All right.” He stood up and put on his doctor’s smock. “She would probably love some company.” He shut the office door and locked it, then they headed down the hallway. 

Once more, after entering the false room, they went through the cumbersome dressing of gloves, masks and booties, and went down the elevator to the room. The room, as before, was silent except for the machines keeping Amber alive. As they walked in, she stirred. “God…is that you? It’s me…Amber.”

“I’m afraid it’s just us,” Thomas said. 

“Oh…great. I knew…I was going to hell.” She squinted. “Who’s that?”

Pyrrha stepped closer. “Pyrrha Nikos.”

“Oh yeah…the ginger. What’s up?”

“I need to talk to you.”

Thomas checked the machines, then his watch. “I can give you an hour. I’ve got some paperwork to finish. Then I have to come back to get you. Okay?”

“That should be fine,” Pyrrha answered. Thomas nodded and left.

He went up the elevator, changed out of the sterile garments and threw them away, then began walking back to his office. Stepping into the hallway, he nearly bumped into a tall brunette. He knew most of the pilots on base, but this one was only vaguely familiar. “Excuse me, Major. This is a restricted wing.”

“Oh, terribly sorry,” she replied. “I’m Cinder Fall. I saw my friend Pyrrha head this way a few minutes ago. Is she all right?”

Thomas gently took her arm and steered her away. “Just visiting a friend. Unfortunately, the friend has salmonella poisoning, so we have to keep her isolated.”

“I see,” Cinder said. “Is it Lieutenant Valkyrie?”

“Patient privilege information,” Thomas told her. “I can’t say. Major Nikos should be out in an hour or so. You can wait in the lounge, if you like, but we have to keep this wing quarantined.”

Cinder laughed a little. “If we didn’t have enough problems around here.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

She shrugged. “It’s all right. No big deal. I’ll track her down later. Thank you, Doctor.” Cinder walked off, hiding her smile.

“Good…to see you,” Amber said, putting out a hand. Pyrrha reached through the plastic and took the hand. “Take your mask…off. Easier to understand.”

“But what about bacteria?”

Amber tried to laugh, but coughed instead. “Hey, if…if bacteria wants to…kill me…I’m okay…with that.” She coughed again, tried to get in more air. “Sorry…can’t talk well.” She weakly squeezed Pyrrha’s hand. “Appreciate you coming…down.”

Pyrrha pulled up a seat. “Amber, I don’t know what to do. I don’t think I can be the custodian of a Maiden.”

“Just Maiden,” Amber corrected. “Yeah, they call…call us that…too.”

“All right. I don’t think I can be a Maiden.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not good enough.”

“Who says?”

Pyrrha smiled sadly. “I do.”

“Ha. Bullshit.” Amber smiled. “I said the…same damn thing.”

“Why did you do it?” Pyrrha wanted to know.

“Because…someone has to.” Amber stared at the ceiling. “I’m no one…no one special. Just Amber. But Ozpin…he believed in me. Thought I was…something. He’s…good man. Trust him.”

“Amber…I did some things.”

The other girl shook her head. “You know…what my callsign…is?” Her smile widened. “Crash. Crash Tardor.” She rolled her eyes. “I was…really hoping for…Tardis. Tardis Tardor.” Seeing Pyrrha’s confused expression, she added, “Doctor Who. Ever watch?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Pagan.” She sat up as much as she could. “If I’d…crashed a few more…I’d be an ace. Of my own side. But…Ozpin saw something…something more.” She gave a tired shrug. “It’s not…so bad. You’re still…a Huntress. Still a…fighter pilot. Kinda cool.”

“Did you ever use it? The Maiden?”

“No. Should have. Wouldn’t be here.” Amber motioned at the bed. “It’s more than…than just love…loving country. It’s to…all humans. Prevent another war.” She pointed vaguely skyward with her remaining hand. “Always wanted…to be an astronaut. Go to moon. Figured this was…next best thing.”

“What if I don’t want any of that?” Pyrrha asked. “What if I just want to be a fighter pilot? Get married? Raise a family?”

“Someone say…you can’t?”

“It was sort of implied.”

Amber chuckled. “Someone…never told me. Not married, no kids. But…I have…” There was the light of devilment in her eyes. “I have… _fucked_ a lot…of dudes.”

“Isn’t that a security breach?”

“Not unless…you tell them. Just…told them I was…a fighter chick. Dudes love…fighter chicks!” Amber sighed. “Gonna miss that. Sex. I love it. Not even sure…it’s still there.” She pulled up the covers and looked down into it. “Oh. Hey. Guess she’s…still there. Damn…needs a shave. Still got…my boobs, too.”

Pyrrha couldn’t help but giggle. “I wish I’d known you sooner.”

“Nah. You’d…too wild for you.” She reached back, to the plastic, and touched Pyrrha’s cheek through it. “If you don’t…want to be…Maiden…that’s okay. But…someone else will…have to be. Someone…not as good…as you.”

“I’m not that good.” Pyrrha reached up and touched the hand, wished she could hug her. 

“Yeah…you are. You wouldn’t…be down here…talking to…me.”

Pyrrha sat back in her chair. “It’s hard for you to talk, but if you like, I can stay with you for a little while.”

“I’d like that. You talk…me listen.”

“About what?”

“About sex.”

Pyrrha snorted and laughed. “No!”

“When you’re…naked…and staring at…the ceiling…what do _you_ …think about?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of experience at that. Sex, I mean.”

“You’re…missing out. Life…is short.” Amber coughed, and leaned back on her pillows. “Then talk about…next best thing. Flying.”

“All right.” And Pyrrha did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Besides the fact that Amber actually talks in this story, I subscribe to the fan theory that Amber's a bit on the hot-blooded side. At least, there sure are a lot of fanfics out there where Amber is one wild Fall Maiden.


	74. The Eve of the War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two investigations continue at the same time: the first, into the White Fang attack that freed Roman Torchwick, and the second, who set up Yang? Ozpin's concerned enough to cancel Vytal Flag, but the Secretary of Defense insists that it continue...starting with Penny's B-1 demonstration.

_Commanding Officer’s Office, Joint Base Beacon_

_Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_13 May 2001_

Blake Belladonna walked into Ozpin’s office. He was behind his desk, as expected; she hadn’t expected General Ironwood. Nor had she expected a USAF sergeant, sitting in a chair with a bandage around his head. She came to attention. “Captain Belladonna, reporting as ordered, sir.”

Ozpin gave her a short nod. “Thank you, Captain. Please, have a seat.” Blake did as ordered. “Captain Belladonna, this is Sergeant Ryan Hofer, US Air Force. He is the sole survivor of the White Fang attack on the convoy. Sergeant, if you could—and I know it’s difficult to keep reliving this incident over and over again, but I promise you, this is the last time.”

“Yes, sir.” Hofer described the attack, the isolation of his HMMWV, what happened after Torchwick was freed, and why he was spared. He didn’t mention the attack warning.

Blake was careful to keep her features neutral, but it was not easy. She recognized the tactics, even could identify some of the White Fang troops just by his description, and of course there was no question Adam had been there; it took all of her self-control not to react to his description. Sienna was easy enough as well. But it was most certainly Ilia that spared the sergeant. She just needed confirmation. “Sergeant, if you don’t mind, could you describe the person who saved you?”

“Well…she was about five feet one, slight build, dark red hair that’s slicked back, freckles—big ones. She was dressed in USAF fatigues, probably surplus, but they all were.”

Blake nodded, then looked at Ozpin. He stood. “Sergeant, thank you for your time. We’ll get you back to the hospital now.” Hofer looked a little confused, but he stood as well, shook hands with all of them, and left. Once the door was closed, Ozpin turned to Blake. “Is that someone you know, Captain?”

“It is, sir. Her name is Ilia Amitola. We…grew up together, actually. I thought she was still in Menagerie.”

“Is she White Fang?” Ironwood asked, the first he’d said since the meeting started.

“She is. We actually joined up together.”

Ozpin steepled his fingers. “So why did she spare Sergeant Hofer?”

Blake had to think about that one. Ilia had killed in the past, though she was nowhere near as bloodthirsty as Adam Taurus or Sienna Khan. “I don’t know. She hates humans. Both of her parents died in a mining accident, working for the Schnee Company.” She paused. “Sir, permission to speak freely?”

“Of course,” Ozpin answered.

“I don’t understand why the White Fang would free Roman Torchwick. He’s a human. Yes, he was apparently partnered with them, but they risked a lot to get him.”

“We’re trying to figure that out ourselves, Captain,” Ironwood told her. “Our only theory is that he knew something, and was afraid we’d get it out of him. However, it would’ve been much easier to simply murder him, not rescue him. We have no idea,” he finished.

It was silent for a few moments, then Ozpin asked, “Out of curiosity, Captain, what kind of Faunus is Miss Amitola?”

“She’s…” Blake laughed a little. “She’s kind of odd in that regard. In a good way, and especially for the White Fang. She’s some sort of chameleon crossbreed. She’s a Faunus, and warm-blooded, but a chameleon. She can camouflage into the environment around her. Her clothes can’t, so it’s limited.”

“Can she look like other people?” Ironwood looked worried.

“No. Just what’s around her. She’s also a qualified pilot, and a good one.” Blake paused. “She might’ve been the one flying either the F-5 Weiss—Oberleutnant Schnee, I mean—went up against. Or the F-22.”

“Would you consider her a friend?” Ozpin wanted to know.

Blake sighed. “I thought we were, sir. I confided in her that I thought the White Fang was going off the rails, and she agreed with me. Not enough to leave, but…she never told anyone that I was thinking about leaving.”

“Very well, Captain; thank you. That will be all.” He smiled at Blake. “My leg is acting up, so you won’t mind if I don’t get up.”

“Not at all, sir.” Ironwood did get up, and they shook hands. “Sir,” she asked, “what’s going to happen to Yang?”

“That’s the next thing on our agenda, Captain,” Ironwood replied. “Sergeant Yorse should be waiting in the hallway. Show him in, if you don’t mind, and you’re dismissed.”

“Sir.” Blake came to attention with precision, then opened the door. Sure enough, there was a very nervous Technical Sergeant Darren Yorse waiting in the hallway. “They’re ready for you,” she said, unsure of what else to say.

“Thanks, Captain.” Yorse got to his feet. “Ma’am…how’s Captain Long?”

Blake smiled at him. “She’s all right.” She dropped her voice. “She thinks she’s been set up. Tell them the truth, Sarge. I think it’ll work out.”

“I intend to, ma’am. Thanks.” He went into the room, closed the door, and came to attention. Ozpin motioned him to a chair, but Yorse, to their surprise, went to perfect at ease, his hands clasped behind his back, legs slightly apart. “I would rather stand, sir.”

Ironwood glared at the sergeant, though in reality he was impressed by the man’s temerity. “That’s an insubordinate action, Sergeant Yorse.”

“Yes, sir,” Yorse replied. “And I intend to take the consequences of my actions.” He glanced at the general. “General, sir…I loaded the gun. It was my fault. Captain Long is innocent.” He returned his gaze to a point just over Ozpin’s shoulder. “Burn me, General. Not her.”

Ozpin’s eyes rose. “Sergeant, you’ve got almost 20 years in service. You’ve got combat time in Germany, Iceland and Iraq. You have two fine children and a beautiful wife. You’re putting a lot on the line with that statement.”

“It was my fault, sir. No one else’s.”

“I see.” Ozpin tossed the form with his and Yang’s signatures onto the desk. “Please explain that, Sergeant.”

Yorse glanced down at it. “Sir, that’s the form that was handed to me that ordered me to load the F-15 with live rounds.”

“And who gave you the form?”

“Captain Sustrai, sir.”

“And where did she get it?”

“From you, sir.” Yorse paused. “No, wait. That’s not right. She said that she’d run into Captain Long, who signed it, but that she’d gotten the form from Major Fall.”

Ozpin and Ironwood exchanged a look. Both men knew what the other was thinking: the two remaining members of Creamer Flight. Something was wrong. “Are you certain?” Ozpin asked the sergeant.

“Swear it on a stack of Bibles, sir.”

Ozpin took back the form, and scanned it again. “Very well. Thank you, Sergeant. You’re released from confinement to quarters, but…don’t leave the base. There will be a formal inquiry, and you’ll be needed.”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Dismissed. And thank you again.” Yorse walked out. He knew better than to ask if this exonerated Yang, but he felt much better than when he had walked in.

Once the door had closed, Ironwood faced Ozpin. “If that form _is_ a forgery, then either Sustrai or Fall lied, and they were the ones that did it.”

“Ruth Lionheart murdered. Now Mercury Black. Both of them may have discovered something that neither Sustrai nor Fall wanted us to know.” 

Ironwood snapped his fingers. “The infiltrator in the data center. Lieutenant Rose described a tall woman with a good figure. That _would_ be a fair description of Cinder Fall.”

“And a lot of other women on base. Still…we are not taking chances. Especially not with what Hofer told us this Amitola woman said about an imminent attack.”

“Unless that was a trick,” Ironwood pointed out. “Make us start jumping at shadows.”

“Better to jump at shadows than be killed by them.” Ozpin picked up his phone. “Amitola. She’s a chameleon Faunus…interesting. What do chameleons do, James?”

Ironwood nodded. “I thought about that too. The CIA’s Source Camo. Jesus. If she’s a deep cover agent, then she risked everything.” He shook his head. “God help her if she gets caught. The White Fang will roast her over an open fire.”

“If we don’t get to the bottom of this soon, James, we might be joining her.” He dialed the number to Emerald Sustrai’s room. 

At the Visiting Officers’ Quarters, Emerald Sustrai’s phone rang. She had been trying to read a book, but without much luck: she knew that a phone call was coming. Feeling fear in her stomach—the old fear of getting caught—she picked up the phone, and managed to answer it in a normal voice. “Captain Sustrai.”

“Captain, this is Captain Ozpin. Report to my office on the double. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. What is this about—“ The line clicked off. Emerald sighed, the fear coalescing into a ball of ice. She set the book down. “Well, that was Ozpin. He didn’t sound too happy. I think he knows.”

Cinder Fall sat in a chair opposite the bed. “That was faster than anticipated, but not unexpected. All right, Emerald. You know what to do. Put everything on me. I was the one who handed you the form. They’ll find the dance guestbook in my room, and deduce correctly that I used it to forge Ozpin’s and Yang’s signatures.” Actually, it had been Emerald who had done it—as a thief, she’d had to forge a lot of signatures in her time. The guestbook from the dance had been a godsend to practice with, which was why Cinder had suggested it in the first place when the dance was being planned. “The most they can get you on was the small fib you told Yang’s crew chief that you’d run into her. Make up some excuse; the worst they can do is confine you to quarters pending the inquiry, and we’ll get you out when the time comes.” Cinder did not tell Emerald that the assault was scheduled for the next 48 hours. 

“Will you be all right?” Emerald asked, as she got to her feet. 

“I’ll be fine. I can be through the front gate in five minutes. Even if they pick me up, Mercury knows what to do. We won’t have long to wait in any case.” To Emerald’s surprise, Cinder gathered her into a hug. “We will win, Emerald. We’re already halfway to victory.” Then she picked up a small overnight bag and left the room.

Cinder walked briskly out of the VOQ and to the parking lot, where her rental car waited. It was a sports car—fighter pilots rarely drove anything less. She threw the bag into the tiny back seat, climbed in, revved the engine, but gently pulled out. The VOQ was less than a block from the front gate. The air policeman on duty waved her through with a smile. Cinder threw him a wave and accelerated as she left the base. Less than two minutes later, she was headed north on Interstate 90.

As Ozpin and Ironwood waited for Emerald, the phone rang. He had tried calling Cinder’s room to no avail; neither man knew she was already gone. Ozpin let it ring for a moment, then reluctantly picked it up. “Captain Ozpin.”

“Ozpin, this is Jason Terasoma.”

Ironwood groaned; he could hear the voice on the other end of the line. It was the worst possible timing. Ozpin couldn’t exactly hang up on the Secretary of Defense of the United States. “I’ll make sure Sustrai doesn’t go anywhere,” he whispered, and headed out into the hall, though he left the door open so he could hear at least some of the conversation.

“Mr. Secretary,” Ozpin returned. “It’s a bit late, sir.”

“Yes, it is. I just got back from a working dinner with the President. I had to brief him on this Yang Xiao Long thing. He’s not too happy, but he’ll put out an official statement in the morning that we’ve begun a court of inquiry. Which we have, right?”

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Secretary, General Ironwood and I are in the middle of it right now.” Ozpin hoped Terasoma would get the hint.

He didn’t. “Ironwood? Why is he involved?”

“We felt it would be best to keep the number of personnel involved to a minimum. Colonel Goodwitch flew over to Ellsworth this afternoon to look into the attack on the Eberle Line AWACS, at my request.” 

“Oh yes, that’s another thing. White Fang involvement, I hear. The attack was a cover so they could break that son of a bitch Torchwick out?”

“Yes, sir. No idea what that was about yet…we’re working on that as well.”

Terasoma’s voice hardened. “No, you’re not, Captain. I appreciate you looking into it, and I know the MPs killed in the attack were from Beacon.” Ozpin didn’t feel like correcting the Secretary that it was Air Force Security Forces, not Army Military Police. “But leave that to the Army. Goodwitch needs to be back at Beacon ASAP for the demonstration tomorrow.”

Ozpin realized he had an opportunity here, after all. “Mr. Secretary, I think we should either delay or cancel the Paladin demonstration.” 

“Why the hell would we do that, Captain?”

“Sir, there’s something very strange going on up here. First we had Flying Officer Lionheart murdered—“

“What? _Murdered?_ When the hell did that happen?”

Ozpin fought down a sigh of frustration. “Mr. Secretary, I sent you several reports, and so did Rissa Arashikaze from the CIA.”

Terasoma was silent for a long minute, and Ozpin could hear him shuffling papers. “Oh, right. Yes, I forgot. Continue, Captain.”

“Now we’ve had the incident with Captain Long and Lieutenant Black, _and_ the attack on the Eberle Line, _and_ the White Fang suddenly breaking out an air pirate that they had no reason to break out. I’m getting the two surviving members of Creamer Flight—Emerald Sustrai and Cinder Fall—up to my office to see what their involvement is. Until we know how these things are connected, Vytal Flag needs to be suspended.”

“Absolutely not,” Terasoma shot back. “It goes forward as scheduled. The Paladin demonstration tomorrow, followed by the conclusion of the one-on-one fights.”

Ozpin wished he could reach through the phone and throttle the Secretary. “Sir, with respect—“

“Captain, I’m not going to tell you again. _It goes forward._ I told the President at dinner tonight that we would hold the demonstration. We’ve got to restore the people’s confidence in the military; don’t you understand that? Watching our newest weapon system kick ass against a bunch of drones simulating GRIMM will do that. If nothing else, it’ll get their minds off this lunatic Yang Xiao Long.”

“She may be innocent, Mr. Secretary. She may have been set up.”

Terasoma stopped, but only for a moment. “That’s great, Captain, if true. And I trust you’ll find out _who_ set her up, so we can burn their ass on national TV. But the Paladin demonstration goes forward. President Shawcross is looking forward to it.”

Ozpin had one last card to play. “There’s another problem, Mr. Secretary. Colonel Goodwitch was supposed to escort the B-1 tomorrow in her F-22.”

“And?” Ozpin heard Terasoma chuckle. “That’s right; you sent her out to Ellsworth. Well, call her back! That’s not too hard.”

“She’s needed out there, Mr. Secretary. She has the only other F-22 in that part of the Remnant. If the pirate F-22 should show up again, I want something to counter it. I don’t think we want to add the loss of an AWACS to our other woes. They got lucky today, but tomorrow may be a different story.”

“That’s a good point.” For a moment, Ozpin thought he’d won, but then Terasoma continued. “Fine, we’ll get someone else to escort the Paladin. Your best pilot…who is your best pilot?” Before Ozpin could respond, Terasoma said, “Hey, about that Pyrrha Nikos girl? She’s already famous. Yeah, that’ll look real good. Make the Greeks less pissed that she renounced her citizenship there. We’ll emphasize her mixed heritage.”

“Mr. Secretary, that’s not a good idea. Major Nikos has—“ Ozpin stopped himself. Terasoma knew about the Maidens, but not that Pyrrha had been selected. “—has other commitments,” he finished.

“Then cancel them. Ozpin, I’m tired of you digging in your feet about this. You have your orders. Either obey them or I will find someone who will. I don’t mind hanging this Xiao Long business around your neck. The demonstration goes on as scheduled, with Nikos escorting the Paladin. End of story. Do you understand?”

Ozpin fought down his temper. “Yes, Mr. Secretary.”

“Good.” Terasoma’s voice softened. “C’mon, Captain. Let’s end your career with a bang. I’ll expect your report on the inquiry by tomorrow night. Good night, Captain.” The line clicked off.


	75. Immigrant Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the day dawns on Penny's demonstration mission, the pieces on the board begin to move as the White Fang begin the first phase of the operation--and Salem makes her move against the Cascadia Barrier on the United States' West Coast. 
> 
> But all is not darkness: Pyrrha and Jaune finally have a heart-to-heart talk...as it were.

_Covert Base Hector_

_Near Former Fargo, North Dakota Dead Zone, United States of Canada_

_14 May 2001_

_0530 Local_

The hangar was quiet as the sun just began to touch the eastern horizon. None of the White Fang were in the barracks or rooms they’d taken over; only a skeleton crew was manning the tower. The rest were in the hangar, most dozing, a few on security detail, the others checking weapons, packs, and everything else that was needed for the assault. It was coming, but none of the rank and file knew exactly when—only that it would be very soon. 

Adam Taurus was awake, cleaning the blade of his katana. There was really no reason for him to be awake, but he was keyed up, unable to sleep. Unlike the rank and file, he knew the assault on Beacon would be tonight. That meant that, more than likely, he was going to have a reckoning with Blake Belladonna. He sincerely hoped he would not have to kill her, and admitted to himself that, should the black F-14 end up in his sights, he wasn’t sure he could pull the trigger.

Arthur Watts was dozing, his back to the hangar wall. Next to him was a telephone. He also hadn’t been able to sleep; he was expecting a phone call. In front of him was his open laptop, open to his e-mail.

Sienna Khan was asleep on a mound of packs next to one of the base’s pickup trucks. It looked distinctly uncomfortable, but she had mastered the ability to sleep long ago.

Roman Torchwick and Neo Politan were not in the hangar, but in the now-deserted barracks, in the private room once belonging to the commanding officer. Sienna had given it up for the couple, who had passionately reunited. Roman was awake, propped up on his pillows, Neo curled up beside him. He smoothed her hair, not enough to wake her. She murmured something in her sleep, and put an arm over his chest. Both were naked; it had been a long, exhausting, wonderful night.

The telephone rang, startling everyone. Watts was instantly awake and answered it. “Hello.”

“W. It’s Cinder.”

“Why, hello there,” Watts said. “Where are you?”

“In Stevens Point. I’ve got Mike here with me.” Mike was code for Mercury.

“Oh? Is he quite all right? I heard he was in a hiking accident.”

“He’s got some cuts and bruises, but he’s fine. I picked him up last night. He had to hike all day through the woods, but I found him.”

“And Em?”

“Em had to stay with her relatives. She’s probably tied up at the moment.”

_Possibly literally,_ Watts thought. “Well, according to the internet, the show is on for today. Will you be watching it?”

“Definitely. Are you coming to see us still?” Cinder asked.

“We should be there by tonight. The whole family’s coming down, and we’re bringing a guest from Alaska.”

“Great! Can’t wait to see you. Oh, and how’s the chess tourney going?”

“Good. I’m down a few games, but I think we’re going to try the Queen’s Gambit.” 

“All right. We’ll see you at base plus 4.” The agreed-upon base time was 5 PM local. “We’re going to get some rest. See you.” The line clicked off.

Everyone was looking at him. Watts held up a hand. “Patience.” He opened his e-mail. There was only one message: COMING DOWN FROM ALASKA. BE THERE IN 12 HOURS. LOVE, S. He smiled. “Perfect,” he whispered. He hadn’t been sure his message had gotten through to her, but it had. The chances for the success of the attack had just quadrupled. No more failures or half-measures: Beacon was getting everything. He studied the e-mail one more time, deleted it, then stood. “That was Cinder. We are go.”

Sienna was on her feet. “And Salem?”

“On her way.”

Sienna took a deep breath, her heart pounding. “White Fang!” she shouted. Everyone was awake now. “Tonight we attack! We will strike a blow for Faunus freedom that will be remembered forever!” A cheer went up from the assembled troops. “Let’s get started! Strike Team Alpha, on me.”

Watts closed his laptop, put it in the bag, and walked briskly to the truck, as the hangar doors opened a little. Sienna took the driver’s seat as he took the passenger side, while six White Fang piled into the back. His heart was hammering too, but not from anticipation so much as fear. Their objective was forty miles away, and there was no guarantee there weren’t GRIMM on the way—and the GRIMM wouldn’t recognize the White Fang as being on the same side. But there was no choice: he had to go, or the plan would fail. 

_Building 1916 (Bachelor’s Officers’ Quarters)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_14 May 2001_

_0600 Local_

Pyrrha Nikos was awakened by the sunlight creeping across the bed. She stretched a little, winced as something popped, and then turned over. It was then she noticed that Jaune Arc was staring at her, already awake. “Hello, Jaune,” she said with a smile.

“Good morning.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“I sure did,” Jaune said. “And you?”

“Mm-hm.” She sat up, looked around. “Oh. Where’s Ren?”

“Spending the night with Nora, most likely.”

“Good idea.” She flung off the covers and got up. “Excuse me. I need to use the restroom.” Jaune watched her as she walked across the room. It was a rather amazing sight, especially since Pyrrha wasn’t wearing any clothes. Of course, neither was he.

As the door shut behind her, Jaune leaned back against the bed’s headboard, wondering if he had dreamed the whole thing. An hour after Pyrrha had left him in front of the hospital, she had returned, still with the envelope in her hands; a guard at Base Headquarters had denied her entry, saying that Captain Ozpin and General Ironwood were in a meeting and were not to be disturbed. Unsure of what to do, and feeling terrible about Jaune, she had walked over to the BOQ to apologize. Jaune had been alone, and invited her in. They had forgiven each other fairly quickly, then talked for a bit.

And then Pyrrha had kissed him.

The door to the bathroom opened, and Pyrrha returned to the bed. Jaune swallowed nervously, taking in the girl’s toned, muscular body, long legs, perfect breasts, and, most of all, her beautiful face. Everything about Pyrrha Nikos was perfect, and Jaune was reminded of something his mother used to say. “Pyrrha, when God made you…He broke the mold.”

She blushed as she climbed back into bed. At first she tucked the covers over herself, but then asked herself why, when she’d just been stark naked in front of him—and had been stark naked most of the night. “Thank you, Jaune.”

He slid down in the covers a little, mainly to conceal what Pyrrha’s nudity was doing to him. “What did we do last night?”

Pyrrha giggled. “If you’ve forgotten, then I wasn’t very good.”

“No! You were…” Jaune didn’t have the words. “But…why me?”

“You said I was the first person to really believe in you. And…well…despite what was said yesterday, I think you’re the first person to really treat me like I was just another person, and not some Invincible Girl.” Her smile could melt a heart of stone.

Jaune looked away. “Pyrrha, I said something to upset you.”

“No, Jaune. I took it the wrong way.” 

He couldn’t resist brushing her hair, so he didn’t. “Something’s changed.”

Pyrrha brushed his cheek in return. “Someone gave me a different perspective.” She almost told him, but Arashikaze’s warning sounded in her ears. “I can’t tell you who they are. But I will tell you this…they’re in the hospital, and, well…they…she…she’s dying, Jaune. She knows it.”

“A friend?” 

“She is now. I can tell you she’s a pilot, or was. But I can’t say any more, Jaune. Really, I can’t.” Even that was probably too much, but Pyrrha chanced it. 

“Okay.” Jaune turned over and faced her. He’d never been this intimate with anyone. He’d been no virgin, but the women he’d been with he’d paid for. “So what did she say?”

“That life was short.” Pyrrha laughed a little. “So I decided to take her advice, and…here we are.” She saw something cross his face, and shook her head. “I didn’t go to bed with you because you were available, Jaune. I went to bed with you because I wanted you. I think I’ve wanted you ever since the party after Lake Michigan. And my friend, well…she made me realize I was kidding myself by _not_ being with you. We’re not 17-year old teenagers, Jaune. We’re grown adults. There’s no reason to play silly games—especially given our profession. It was sudden, maybe even stupid, but…I’m glad I did it.”

“I’m not going to complain. I just can’t believe you picked me.” Jaune laughed. “I’m a noodle.”

“You’re a wonderful lover, Jaune.”

He scooted over to her and embraced her. She was so warm, and soft. It was hard for him to believe that this girl in his arms was actually with him, much less that it was Pyrrha Nikos. Not Pyrrha the Invincible Girl of Greece, or Major Nikos—but Pyrrha. She nuzzled into his neck, and he could feel her smile. “What time do you have to be on the flightline?”

“We’re flying in the afternoon, so I don’t have to be there until 1100.”

Jaune checked the clock. It was 0600. “Five hours? Plenty of time.”

“For what?” she asked, even though she knew the answer.

He gently turned her over, and knelt between her legs. “To make you glad you did it all over again.”

Pyrrha put her hands on his shoulders. “But what if someone comes?”

Jaune kissed her. “I hope someone does.”

“What? Oh.” She gave him a dirty look. “I meant Ren.”

“Ren’s going to be with Nora. And he’s discreet.”

“Then by all means,” Pyrrha said, kissing his nose, “make me _very_ glad.”

_USS_ Cushing _(DD-985)_

_Cascadia Barrier, Northern Pacific Ocean, West of Washington Dead Zone_

_14 May 2001_

_0630 Local_

Radarman Second Class Timothy Fronsee watched the green screen of the air search radar and tried not to yawn. Much like his counterparts on the AWACS, his job was long moments of crushing boredom interspersed with moments of sheer terror. However, there had been very little terror on this cruise, so he fought sleep in the darkened Combat Information Center, or CIC. Fronsee and his friends maintained that it stood for Christ I’m Confused. 

He caught movement in the southeast quadrant of the radar screen. It was a blip, but on the second sweep of the radar, on the mast several decks above him, it was gone. Then it was back on the third sweep, and gone again. “Mr. Eitzen?”

Lieutenant (junior grade) Aaron Eitzen walked over, coffee cup in hand. “Whatcha got, Fronsee?”

“I dunno, sir. A contact bearing two-nine-nine. Keeps fading in and out.” They saw it again. “There it is. Looks like…range 200, angels five thousand, speed…1700? That can’t be right.”

“Not unless we’re about to get buzzed by a SR-71.” Eitzen picked up the phone to the bridge. It was answered after the second ring. “Lieutenant Eitzen, CIC. We’re tracking an intermittent contact bearing two-nine-nine, speed 1700, range 200. Recommend we go to GQ.”

“Lieutenant, this is the Captain speaking.” In his mind’s eye, Eitzen could see Captain Joseph Logan. Logan was a good captain, liked by his men. “Confirm it’s not a radar issue?”

“Negative, sir.”

“Very well.” The line clicked off, but a second later, the gonging noise of the General Quarters alarm went off throughout the ship. Half-asleep crewmen leapt out of bunks and grabbed helmets and lifejackets as the ship went to battle stations; most didn’t even bother to dress. There wasn’t time.

Fronsee watched the radar intently, and suddenly the contact was no longer intermittent. “Solid contact, Mr. Eitzen! Still bearing two-nine-nine, speed now 1200, range 90— _Vampire, Vampire!_ New contacts, bearing two-nine-nine, speed 700, range 85!” Eitzen felt a wave of nausea: Vampire was code for incoming antiship missiles. Looking over Fronsee’s shoulders, he could see the four new contacts; the first one was gone.

The _Cushing_ turned towards the target, going to flank speed to try and present the smallest target to the missiles’ seeker heads. The ship’s Sea Sparrow mount swung out to bear on the incoming missiles, but its range was only twelve miles. The crew had to wait as the ship began making hard turns, trying to throw off the missiles’ seeker heads. They didn’t have long to wait as the distance closed rapidly. Rockets fired from the ship, bursting overhead and filling the air with chaff that drifted into the _Cushing’s_ wake. One missile suddenly broke away, chased a chaff cloud, and detonated behind the ship, shaking it but causing no damage.

Then the Sea Sparrow fired. Two missiles burst from the boxlike launcher and sped towards the incoming missiles. They met three seconds later, destroying one missile. Now there were two left, and the missiles abruptly pitched upwards, prepatory to diving into the _Cushing_ from above. The ship had one card left: atop the bridge, the Close-In Weapon System swung over and turned its twenty millimeter gatling cannon upwards. The gun roared, and one of the missiles exploded, showering the _Cushing’s_ decks with fragments and knocking out the ship’s radars. Fronsee’s display went blank.

The last missile was not to be denied. The CIWS missed, and it knifed into the _Cushing_ amidships, going through one deck before it exploded. 

The initial fireball destroyed much of the crew quarters, which thankfully was mostly empty, and blew a twenty-foot wide hole in the side of the ship. Shock effect traveled through the _Cushing_ , enough to break the destroyer’s back. Fire quickly began to spread, and the ship heeled over to port, where the damage was. Water flooded in, snuffing out some of the fire, and though more of it spread, the fact that the ship was at general quarters mitigated the damage.

Captain Logan ordered the ship counterflooded and radioed for assistance. It was picked up by the naval air station at Juneau, and by a destroyer further down the line. The _Cushing_ would sink and take thirty of her crew with her, but it would take a long time to die. Most of her crew would live.

It also left a hundred mile gap in the Cascadia Barrier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, I just love me some Arkos. This makes two fanfics in less than 24 hours where Pyrrha and Jaune have ended up hooking up. Well, dammit, they deserve it. Especially with this story heading for the Battle of Beacon...
> 
> The USS Cushing, incidentally, wasn't chosen randomly. A friend of mine served aboard her, so naturally, I sank the ship, because that's what friends do.


	76. Burning Down the House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penny and Pyrrha take off to demonstrate the Paladin Project, but Watts hacks into the B-1's systems and turns it towards Chicago, to unleash it on civilian airliners. Penny can't stop it. Pyrrha can, but only at the cost of Penny's life.
> 
> What will she do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's where things start to get ugly.
> 
> Incidentally, the KVLY-TV tower exists.

_Transient Aircraft Tarmac_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_14 May 2001_

_1130 Hours Local_

“Ready?” Penny Polendina asked Pyrrha. They stood at the edge of the tarmac. 

“I am. Are you? This is kind of your big day.” 

“Yep!” Penny was happy; she would finally get her chance to shine and show what she could do. She had over Lake Michigan, but no one knew about that: this was the Paladin Project’s public unveiling. She noticed something about Pyrrha as well. “You seem pretty chipper, Pyrrha. Not that I’m complaining, but what’s up?”

Pyrrha could not help but smile. “Let’s just say I finally decided to start living my life rather than just existing.” She was glad Penny seemed naïve about certain things of life. When Pyrrha had walked from the BOQ towards the flightline, she’d passed Blake, who was headed towards the Officers’ Club for lunch. They’d exchanged some small talk, but the whole time Pyrrha was sure Blake knew exactly what she’d been up to. Abruptly, she remembered that some Faunus had heightened senses of smell, and blushed; what if Blake had smelled Jaune on her?

Penny’s eyes lit up. “Someone found a boyyyyfriennnd,” she sang. Pyrrha said nothing, but the shy smile told even Penny that she wasn’t wrong. “So cool! Tell me who it is.”

“A lady never tells, Penny.”

“Aww.” 

“Ladies.” Both women turned and snapped to attention, saluting General Ironwood as he walked up to them, with Ciel Soleil in tow. “Ready to go?”

“Yes, sir!” both answered.

“Good. Remember this is for the cameras—nothing too fancy. Everyone’s nervous after what happened with Captain Long yesterday, so let’s keep it professional.”

Pyrrha nodded. She handed Ironwood the packet Ruth Lionheart had left for Nora. “Yes, sir. Sir, would you mind giving this to Captain Ozpin? I was going to do it yesterday, but…got distracted.”

Ironwood took the packet. He’d heard about Pyrrha’s visit with Amber, as had Ozpin. Neither were too upset about it; both saw it as a good thing, especially if it helped both women—Pyrrha to make her decision, Amber to ease her last days. “From Ruth Lionheart?”

“Yes. It’s gun camera film from—“ Pyrrha remembered Penny and Ciel standing there. “It’s gun camera film. You should look over it.” 

“Very well.” He tucked the packet under his arm. “All right. Captain Soleil?”

Ciel stepped forward. “Let’s go over this one more time, by the numbers. Penny, you’ll take off first. Head directly to Lake Michigan. The drones will be launched from Sawyer AFB, and you will engage at 20 miles. You have twenty AMRAAMs loaded aboard, and there are 24 drones. Any leakers will be Major Nikos’ to kill. It’s all right if you don’t get all of them…but try to. Major, if you feel it’s safe to engage with guns, feel free.” Pyrrha nodded. She was carrying four AMRAAMs and two Sidewinders, plus live rounds for the gun. “Once you’ve completed the mission, return home. No funny stuff like buzzing the field, Penny.” Penny looked disappointed, but nodded. “Then there will be an interview after you land for both of you. The press is arriving now—“ Ciel pointed down the taxiway, where the media was beginning to gather “—but you don’t need to speak with them. Wave if you want, but that’s all. Understood?”

“Yes,” Pyrrha replied.

“Yes, ma’am,” Penny added.

“Very good. Ladies, good luck. Should be an easy one today.” Ironwood patted the packet. “I’ll give this to Ozpin, Major. See you when you get back.”

“Sir,” Pyrrha asked softly, “have you heard about Yang—Captain Long?”

Ironwood bent down, a little closer. “Things are looking better with that, Major. I think Yang will be all right.”

Pyrrha smiled. “Wonderful, sir. Thank you. And about a certain thing you asked me…” Pyrrha closed her eyes, and decided. “I’ll do it.”

Ironwood smiled back. “Thank you, Major.” He shook hands with her, then Penny. Ciel hesitated, then hugged Penny, which took the latter aback a little; Ciel had never really shown much affection for her charge. 

Then it was just Penny and Pyrrha. “Well, here we go. Ready?” Pyrrha asked.

“Let’s do this.” Penny reached out and gathered Pyrrha into a hug with surprising strength, and then both walked towards their aircraft. They came into sight of the press; Pyrrha, used to this sort of attention, waved, but found it surprisingly easy to smile—usually she had to fake one, but not today. Penny waved enthusiastically, not at all fazed by the cameras. She then nodded to the older pilot and turned to walk towards the B-1. Pyrrha had a few more strides to get to her F-16. It was already preflighted, so all she had to do was climb in. Her crew chief helped her strap in; as Pyrrha put on her helmet, she heard the B-1 begin to spool up, the engines rapidly approaching a roar. The chocks were pulled from the Lancer as Pyrrha’s crew chief gave a friendly slap to her helmet, climbed down and removed the ladder. She started the engine once she was sure he was clear, made sure the navigation system was working, then waited with her hands outside of the canopy as the bomber began to move forward.

_Building 91213 (Female Officers’ Quarters)_

_1150 Hours Local_

“Hey, Yang.” Blake shut the door behind her. Yang was sitting on her bed, watching a television that had been “midnight requisitioned” the night before from the dorm rec room, a military euphemism for outright stolen. It had been a joint operation of Ruby Flight. “Watching Penny and Pyrrha?”

“Yeah.” Yang saw that Blake was carrying something. “Whoa. Is that lunch?”

“Uh huh.” She handed Yang the plastic packet. Inside was Shopkeeper’s best steak and noodles. “Oh, hot damn,” Yang said, unwrapped the fork, and dug in.

“Big appetite.” Blake was glad to see it. Even Qrow Branwen had not been able to cheer her up the night before. If anything, Yang had looked more depressed after he left.

“Feeling better.” Yang got up, grabbed a soda from the refrigerator, and sat down again, cracking it open. “Slept pretty good, and Ironwood came by about an hour ago. They think they found evidence that shows I didn’t know about the live rounds. If that’s the case, I’ll probably be exonerated. Worst that’ll happen is I _might_ get a letter of admonishment.” A letter of admonishment was one step below a letter of reprimand; it could damage her career, but not destroy it. She drank a third of the soda. “Someone forged that fucking form.”

“Well, that’s good news—about you being exonerated, not the forgery. He say anything else? I notice the guard is still outside.”

“Yeah, he’s got to stay there until the court of inquiry is convened—Ironbutt wants to do that tomorrow. At least they got a hunky guy today. I might want to see if he can ‘guard’ me really closely. I mean, just in case.” Yang wiggled her eyebrows at Blake, who laughed. If Yang was joking again, all was right with the world.

“Where’s Ruby and Weiss?”

“Weiss is at the O’Club; she’s getting some lunch and coming back here. Ruby got some lunch and then is going to see if she can talk to Ozpin about something. She didn’t tell me what it was, but I bet she’s trying to find out about you.”

“Sounds like Rubes. She’s a good little sister. Don’t tell her I said that; it’ll go to her head.”

Blake snickered. “How about your uncle?”

“He took off this morning.” Yang didn’t tell Blake why. The night before, they had talked about Raven. Qrow had filled in some of the blanks for Yang, though not much more than what Raven herself had. He was already scheduled to fly out to Ellsworth to relieve Glynda Goodwitch in finding out where the mysterious red F-22 went, but promised to come back as soon as he was able. He had told her to try and understand her biological mother, but Yang was having trouble coming up with reasons why. Raven had abandoned her, and that was that; Summer Rose had been her mother, and there was really no other reason to even see Raven Branwen again.

Blake noticed Yang was growing a bit somber again, so sat next to her on the bed. She didn’t hug her, just was close enough to let her friend know she was there. “Looks like they’re taxiing out.”

_KVLY-TV Tower_

_Near Former Blanchard, North Dakota Dead Zone, United States of Canada_

_1200 Hours_

“We’re online,” Arthur Watts told Sienna Khan.

“Good.” She shivered, and not because it was a little cold. There were only a handful of them, and they were standing in the middle of a Dead Zone. If any GRIMM detected them, it would be over in minutes. “How long?”

“I can activate Black Queen at any time,” he replied. 

“And the broadcast?”

“That as well.” He set the laptop down on the passenger seat of the pickup, and stared upwards. “Our abandonment of Mountain Glenn may have been fortiutous. This transmitter will work _much_ better.” 

Sienna joined him in looking up. The KVLY-TV Tower was the tallest structure in the world: a thin steel tower stretching over two thousand feet into the sky, held in place by guy wires as thick as those on a suspension bridge. Because it stood on an otherwise featureless plain, it gave coverage well over the horizon. To their surprise, it was still fairly well-maintained: they had found documents on the tower at Hector, where a team of USAF personnel went out every three months to inspect it, GRIMM permitting: it had strategic uses—one of which was broadcasting emergency instructions, which was exactly what Watts intended to use it for now. “I’d read about this when I was little,” Sienna said, “but I thought it had been destroyed years ago.”

“As soon as the broadcast is made, we’ll return to Hector and launch the main phase of the operation.” They turned as one of the White Fang soldiers came out of the tower’s operations shack. “Sir, it’s on the radio. The Paladin demonstration has started.”

“Good.” Watts sat down in the truck, picked up the laptop, crackled his knuckles, and began typing.

_Near Manitowoc, Wisconsin_

_1215 Hours Local_

Pyrrha held position below and to Penny’s right as they crossed the Lake Michigan coast, and they began a turn over the water, in a shallow climb. She admired the B-1’s sleek lines; it didn’t look quite of the earth. “Pyrrha, Penny,” the other girl called out. “Contact. Multiple bandits, bearing 080, angels ten, range eighty.”

“Roger that, Penny. Come left to 080, let’s close.” The two aircraft began the turn, the B-1’s wings sliding backwards. Pyrrha hoped that Penny wouldn’t try to outdistance her; the Lancer was almost as fast as the F-16, and the B-1 was running clean, with everything internal. 

In the bomber, Penny checked the instruments; everything was excellent. She could let the computer fly the intercept—the people on the ground would never notice—but it was more fun to “hand fly” the aircraft. Their closing speed was well over the speed of sound, and although the AMRAAMs were still out of range, Penny ordered. “DUST, lock on bandits, first ten.” A soft chime let her know the DUST system had activated. The onboard radar swiveled inside the nose, locked onto all 24 drones, and the DUST system picked the ten contacts it deemed the most threatening. To enhance its ability, it drew on a satellite orbiting two thousand miles above them. Carried within the satellite signal was Watts’ commands.

Without warning, the B-1’s control column was wrenched out of Penny’s hands, with enough force that if she hadn’t let go, she might’ve broken her wrists. The bomber abruptly made a hard right break, right into the path of Pyrrha. “ _Skata!”_ Pyrrha shouted, but before her brain had finished processing the situation her hands were already moving, rolling the F-16 down and to the left. The fighter lurched as it hit the bomber’s jetwash, but she compensated. “Penny, Pyrrha, what are you doing?”

“I don’t know!” Penny was startled enough to forget procedure. She grabbed the controls and tried to bring it back on course, but it barely budged. The B-1 was now heading south and accelerating. “Pyrrha, Penny! Something’s wrong!”

Pyrrha pushed her throttle forward and closed the distance. She looked over the bomber quickly; there was no visible damage. “Vytal Flag, Vytal Flag, knock it off!” she shouted. “Something’s wrong with Penny!”

“Range Control, acknowledged,” the controller said. The drones immediately slowed down, no longer moving towards them; they were unarmed in any case. “Penny, Range Control, are you declaring an emergency?”

“Range Control, Penny, wait one.” She pulled back on the controls, but once more, it did almost nothing: the B-1’s nose came up just a little, the airspeed bled off, but it quickly snapped back into place. Her fingers flew over buttons and switches, but nothing responded. She tried to run a diagnostic, then switch off DUST, then pulled the throttle back, but it did not budge at all. “Oh shit,” she breathed. “Oh shit.”

“Penny, Pyrrha, what’s going on?”

Penny felt fear crawling up her throat. “Pyrrha, Penny. I’ve lost control of the aircraft. Repeat, I have no control of Paladin.”

“Can you get back control?”

“Negative.” With horror, Penny knew what was going on. “Pyrrha, Paladin thinks I’m dead. It won’t acknowledge control inputs, diagnostic, anything. It’s locked me out. Wait one.” She couldn’t log into the onboard computer anymore, but she could tell where they were going. “My new course is one-seven-two, speed 500, angels five. Radar is on, DUST is on. Searching for targets.” Pyrrha looked at her own radar. There was nothing in front of them that could be targeted. There were certainly no threats. Then she reached out with a finger and traced the line of their course, and her breath nearly caught in her throat. “Penny, Pyrrha. Try to go to port.”

“Roger.” A pause. “Nothing. It swings me back as soon as I try.”

“Penny, can you switch channels? Go to channel three.”

“Negative. I have no control. Paladin is coming right to one-six-nine, speed increasing, angels seven. Radar is still searching for targets; DUST has slaved the first ten missiles to the radar.” Penny’s voice was even, a test pilot who understood something was wrong with their aircraft and trying to work the problem—or at least give out information for those who would be later investigating it.

“Penny, you’re on a direct course for Chicago-O’Hare,” Pyrrha said.

“Roger, concur. Radar has…” Penny paused. “Radar has locked on. New target at range one hundred. Speed increasing to max, 700.”

Penny’s own radar did not have that kind of range. “Beacon, Pyrrha. Paladin is locking targets at range one hundred, bearing one-seven-two. That is over North Chicago. Are there any bogeys or bandits?”

The controllers at Beacon had been watching the situation unfold. “Wait one, Pyrrha, we’re checking.” Pyrrha’s fingers tightened around her stick and throttle; they were traveling over a mile every ten seconds. “Pyrrha, Penny, Beacon.” The controller’s voice had risen an octave. “Paladin is spiked on a civilian airliner, repeat, buddy spike, buddy spike.”

“Penny here.” She waited until the controller had finished. “Paladin remains locked on target one, now locked on target two, two miles behind target one.”

“Mother of God,” Pyrrha exclaimed. The Paladin was locking onto the airliners in the approach pattern to O’Hare. At 25 miles, it would begin firing. “Penny—“

Penny overrode her. “Pyrrha, you have to shoot down the Paladin.”

“What? No!”

“Pyrrha, you have to!” Penny shouted. “We’ll be over land in five minutes. After that, there’s no telling where the aircraft will go down.”

“Roger that.” Pyrrha mouthed some vile Greek curses under her breath, and fell back into trail. “Let me know when you’re ready to punch out, Penny.”

“Negative. I can’t eject. I can’t get out.” Penny’s voice was sad, not panicky or upset. She sounded more disappointed than scared. 

“What are you talking about?” All radio etiquette was forgotten now. “Punch out!”

“I can’t,” Penny replied. “Paladin is not equipped with an ejection seat, and we’re going too fast to get out manually.” Pyrrha could hear Penny’s sad smile in her voice. “I’m sorry, Pyrrha. I’ll try to make it easier for you.”

“I can’t do it!” Pyrrha cried. 

“Range now fifty, landfall in three minutes. Pyrrha, do it.”

“No, please God, no…”

“It’s okay, Pyrrha. There are others. Pulling back now.” Penny reached forward, grabbed the control column with both hands, and hauled back as hard as she could. It overrode the Paladin’s programming for just a moment, and the B-1’s nose rose into the air, shedding airspeed. “Shoot! Shoot!”

Pyrrha had already settled the gunsight over the B-1. The radar was locked on, and warbled in her ears. Penny was giving her the best target she was going to get. “Oh God,” Pyrrha said, the tears streaming over her oxygen mask, “forgive me.”

She pulled the trigger four times. 

The AMRAAMs leapt off the rails. They were near minimum range, and their radar seeker heads only saw an easy target, even as the Lancer dropped back to level flight. They closed the distance in seconds. The first struck the B-1 in the right engine pod beneath the wing, blowing off most of the wing assembly. The second hit the tail. The third landed squarely in the Lancer’s spine. The fourth landed just behind the cockpit. The entire bomber and its full load of fuel and missiles vanished in a massive explosion. Pyrrha climbed hard to clear it. As she rolled upside down, she watched what little remained of the aircraft fall into Lake Michigan, well short of the beach.

“Pyrrha, Beacon—“

“This is Pyrrha. Target is destroyed.” Pyrrha’s voice was flat, almost robotic. “Time is 1823 Zulu, 1223 local.”

There was silence on the channel. “Pyrrha, Beacon,” the controller called out. “Any survivors from Paladin One?”

“Negative.”

“Understood, Pyrrha. RTB Beacon.”

“Roger.” Pyrrha turned on course for the base. She switched off her radio, and let out a primal scream of pure sorrow and rage.

_KVLY-TV Tower, North Dakota Dead Zone_

_1225 Local_

“And that’s that,” Watts sighed. “Hated to do that. There was a lot of my time and trouble put into the project. But…they should’ve listened to me.”

Sienna couldn’t find her voice. The entire incident had been broadcast live over radio as well as TV, and they had heard Penny’s death. Even the High Leader of the White Fang was stunned. “The pilot...” she began.

“Weapon system,” Watts corrected her, an edge in his voice. “That was completely unnecessary. It was Pietro Polendina’s idea to use a human pilot, not mine. I wanted it completely automated! Well, he’s reaping the benefits now, isn’t he, the old cripple!” Watts was shouting, realized it, and calmed himself. “Well. Enough about that rubbish. Sienna, your broadcast awaits.”

“Yes…yes, of course.” She quickly walked into the shack. There was no place to sit, so she simply leaned against the table, took the microphone that was held out to her, and waited. She didn’t need cue cards; she’d been rehearshing this speech for months. One of her soldiers threw Watts a thumbs-up, and he typed in a quick command. Every television signal from Winnipeg to Sioux Falls to Beacon was now overriden. 

“This is not a tragedy,” Sienna began. “This is not an accident.”

_Commanding Officer’s Office_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin_

_1230 Local_

Ozpin stared at the television feed. It had been showing Pyrrha’s camera pod, on the centerline of the F-16; the B-1, thankfully, had not been so equipped. The television stations had cut the feed, but not before everyone watching it had watched Penny Polendina die. Ironwood, behind him, had fallen back against the window jamb in shock. The talking head on the TV, who was trying to figure out what had gone wrong, suddenly derezzed and was replaced with a black queen chess piece, against a blood red field. “What in God’s name?”

“This is not a tragedy. This is not an accident,” the female voice said. It sounded dimly familiar, but he couldn’t pick it out; there was the slightest hint of a British accent. “This is what happens when you hand over your trust, your safety, and your children to men and women who claim to be our guardians…but in reality, are nothing more than fallible human beings.”

The door flew open, admitting Glynda Goodwitch. She was still in her flight suit; she’d arrived only a few minutes after Pyrrha and Penny had left. Ozpin looked up. She shook her head. “They can’t cut the feed. Someone’s hijacked the signal.”

“You have handed over absolute power to people who cannot be trusted with it,” the voice continued. “They cling to this power in the name of peace, but do we have peace? They built a robot killing machine, stuck a poor, innocent girl inside of it, and forced the Invincible Girl of Greece to kill her when it failed and began mercilessly targeting civilians. And _this_ is what we trust our safety to against the GRIMM! We are not safe. _You_ are not safe.”

“Goddammit,” Ironwood snarled, “who the hell _is_ that?”

“And in this critical exercise, in the frontline at Vytal Flag, command is given to a tired old man, who refuses to retire. A man who began the Huntsman/Huntress program, but one who has lost control. His pilots claim to carry themselves with honor and mercy—and have done neither. Today was avoidable; yesterday was outright murder as Captain Yang Xiao Long killed Lieutenant Mercury Black in revenge. Perhaps Captain Oscar Ozpin felt that Vytal Flag would cause you, the public, to forget his near failure to protect La Crosse from a GRIMM attack. Or perhaps this was the attempt of America’s elected leaders to convince you that they control the frontiers. To be honest, I do not know or care who is right or wrong. But peace is fragile, and the leaders of our nations conduct their business with barely concealed contempt for one another, with iron gloves, often at the behest of corporations like the Schnee Company. 

“I am from Europe, and I can assure you that the situation there is no better. We are constantly on the brink of war, and yet we, the citizens, are left in the dark. So I ask you, citizens of the world: when it is demonstrated that your leaders are no longer in control, that all their military might cannot stop the GRIMM…who do you think you can trust?”

_KVLY-TV Tower, North Dakota Dead Zone_

_1245 Local_

Sienna switched the microphone off and walked out of the shack. “Well?” she asked Watts.

“Well put, High Leader.” He scooted over to the passenger seat. “Shall we go? I imagine this area will shortly be filled with a great deal of GRIMM. We’re not their target, but they’re not terribly intelligent.”

“Let’s go.” She climbed into the driver’s seat and nodded towards one of her men. “Brian, let Hector know to start loading the C-130. We leave in three hours.”


	77. The Final Countdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Penny's death, the commanders at Beacon realized they've been infiltrated. But as a Nevermore closes in on the base, the Black Queen virus activates with terrible effect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Beacon begins here. As usual, I tried to be as accurate as possible, but I undoubtedly got some details wrong-especially when it comes to how a computer virus works. I'm very much not a tech guy, so I'm just guessing here. Hey, it works that way in Hollywood.

_Transient Aircraft Ramp_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_14 May 2001_

_1310 Local_

Ruby Rose was walking aimlessly. She had been at the Officers’ Club, getting lunch and watching coverage of the B-1 Paladin mission. And she had watched one of her best friends die, in living color and on live television. In the chaos of that, as pilots had left the club, she’d walked out in a daze, unnoticed, unsure of where to go or who to talk to. She was crying, but it wasn’t bawling; the tears just drifted down her cheeks, barely noticed. First Ruth Lionheart, now Penny Polendina. Her uncle Qrow had warned her that a fighter pilot’s career was marked by tragedy as much as triumph: flying high-performance aircraft always left a margin of error, and pilots died with depressing regularlity. She’d barely started her career and already been to one funeral, not counting her mother’s. And now she’d have to go to another one.

She realized she was walking towards the dispersal area, and half-smiled: of course, when she needed comfort, she would gravitate towards her aircraft. _Stop this,_ Ruby told herself. _Penny said the B-1 could be remotely piloted. That means someone hacked it. We need to find out who. Stop moping around and find out who did this, Ruby Rose. Penny didn’t just die in an accident or die in her sleep; she was murdered. And by God, I swear I’m going to find out who did this._ Then Ruby remembered Yang, and how she’d been set up. She turned on one foot, intending to run to Ozpin’s office, but then the sound of a jet engine caused her to look up, as Pyrrha Nikos entered the downwind leg to land. She heard a roar of chattering behind her, and saw a small horde of news reporters and cameramen heading for the dispersal area, kept back by a rope. 

“Ruby!” She turned and saw Coco Adel and Yatsuhachi Daichi running towards her. “Did you hear?” Then Coco noticed the tear stains on Ruby’s cheeks. “Oh.” 

Ruby dried her tears on her sleeve. “Guys, those media guys are going to tear Pyrrha apart.” 

“Not if we have anything to say about it.” All three headed for the dispersal.

Air police were holding back the media as Pyrrha landed and began taxiing to her hardstand. A ground crewman diverted her to the transient ramp, back to where she had been parked before, though now Glynda’s F-22 was parked where Penny’s B-1 had been. She taxiied in and shut down the engine, and her crew chief put the ladder on the canopy rim as soon as she opened her canopy—away from the press. Cameras whirred and clicked like locusts as she unstrapped, got out, and unsteadily made her way down the ladder.

Ruby ran towards Pyrrha, as Coco and Yatsuhachi peeled off, forming a guard line of sorts behind the air policemen. Pyrrha got to the ground, then leaned against the ladder. “Pyrrha?” Ruby asked.

Pyrrha looked over, her face drawn, tears still running down her face, her eyes puffy and red. “Oh God,” she said, at the sight of Ruby. “Oh God, Ruby, I’m so sorry. I killed Penny. God help me, I killed Penny. I killed—“ Then she hurriedly stripped off her mask, fell to one knee, and vomited. 

Ruby knelt beside her. “It’s okay, Pyrrha. It’s all right. You didn’t kill Penny. It wasn’t your fault.” She rubbed the other woman’s back. “It wasn’t your fault, Pyrrha.”

“I have to—have to report to Ozpin…” she struggled out. Pyrrha glanced up at the media. “Oh, no. Oh, no. They’ll want to talk to me—“

“We won’t let them. C’mon, Pyrrha.” Ruby helped her to her feet. The crew chief pulled a rag out of his back pocket. It was dirty, but it was better than nothing, and Pyrrha wiped away the last of the vomit. She then took off her helmet, put it in its bag, took a deep breath, and nodded to Ruby. They began to walk towards the equipment room. 

“Let me through! Dammit, let me through!” Jaune fought his way through the crowd of media, and was stopped by one of the air police; he was in his uniform rather than a flight suit. Coco, who was in her flight suit, stepped forward. “It’s okay!” she shouted. “He’s one of us.” The policeman nodded, and raised the rope enough for Jaune to duck under. One of the reporters tried to get under as well, only to find himself confronted with six and a half feet of Yatsuhachi. He quickly shrank back under the barricade.

Jaune ran to Pyrrha’s side. “Are you okay?” She didn’t trust herself to speak, and it was something of a stupid question; he regretted it the moment he said it. Still, she nodded, and squeezed his hand. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Ruby repeated.

“She’s right,” Jaune agreed. “Whoever made that broadcast—they’re behind this. And we have to make sure they don’t…” He suddenly went pale. “Oh, merde.”

“What?” Ruby asked.

“Pyrrha. The gun camera pictures. Cinder’s gun camera pictures. What if that wasn’t an accident? What if she was _trying_ to kill Fox and Velvet?”

Pyrrha didn’t answer, but Ruby’s eyes widened. “And Mercury was the guy Yang shot down. If she was set up…”

“We have to get to Ozpin.” Jaune began to lead Pyrrha away. They had to pass a corner of the barricade, and the media gravitated to that side quickly. “Major Nikos!” a man shouted. “Why did you kill Penny Polendina? How does that make you feel?”

Jaune didn’t even stop walking. He merely turned and punched the man in the face. He went down, and Jaune pulled back bloody knuckles. “What the hell is wrong with you people?” he yelled. “We just lost a damned good friend, and you vultures want your damn _story?”_ He spit. “Fuck you! Fuck all of you!”

Then he rejoined Pyrrha and Ruby, and they began running towards Ozpin’s office.

_Regency 26 (E-3A AWACS)_

_Eberle Line Track 4, Near Charles City, Iowa, United States of Canada_

_1320 Local_

Airman 1st Class Heather Cummings walked back to her station, glad to stretch her legs and use the bathroom. There wasn’t much room to walk around in the E-3, even though it was a converted airliner airframe. She yawned, cracked her back, and resumed her seat. “I got it, Jeff.” She put her headset back on, and felt the aircraft begin a gentle turn as it began to come around on its patrol track, a long oval from the Mississippi to midway across Iowa. Unlike a few days before, it was now back further from the Eberle Line, which degraded its radar a little, though it could still “see” across Minnesota. She picked up a blip at the northern edge of the radar’s reach. She looked at the data block. “Wolf Den 34, this is Regency 26, state, over.”

The voice that came back had the slight accent of the Canadian Plains. “Regency 26, Wolf Den 34 is a Charlie 130, heading to Beacon from Vancouver. Authorization is Tango Hotel Golf, over.”

Cummings ran her finger down a list of authorizations on the side of her scope. “Confirmed, Wolf Den 34. You are clear through Minnesota. Be advised Vytal Flag exercise is complete for the day.” _And then some,_ she thought. Regency had heard the radio conversation between Pyrrha and Penny. _Poor thing._

“We heard, Regency. Wolf Den 34 out.”

She leaned back in her chair. Her back felt stiff; even cracking it hadn’t really worked. She tried again, and this time it really popped, loud enough that the entire tracking crew stared at her. Cummings grinned sheepishly, but at least her back felt better. Now there were two blips on her screen, another one in northwestern Minnesota. “Regency 26, Rock 22,” her radio crackled. “Request authorization to move across your AO, over.”

“Rock 22, Regency 26,” she radioed back. “Course and heading?” 

“Regency 26, Rock 22. Our course is three five zero to MOL, then southeast to ORD.” Cummings translated that as that Rock 22 would fly to the Moose Lake waypoint, then southeast to Chicago-O’Hare. “Is Beacon airspace open?”

“Roger that, Rock 22. Do you have authorization?”

“Wait one, Regency.” There was a pause. “Authorization is Romeo Tango Whiskey.” Her finger went down the list again. It was at the bottom, but it was there: the flight plan had been filed that morning, from Hector to O’Hare, then to the aircraft’s home base at Little Rock. 

“Roger, Rock 22. You are cleared. Be advised of traffic that will be to the north in one hour at about ten miles; that will be Wolf Den 34.”

“Understood, Regency. Man, are we glad to get out of your guys’ hair. That place was getting pretty lonely.”

Rock 22 was not supposed to be so chatty, but Cummings let it go; she could imagine the crew was pretty relieved. “Keep the channel clear, Rock 22—“

Ahead of her, she saw one of the other controllers suddenly sit up straight. “Unidentified contact, bearing one two zero, heading zero one five.” Cummings’ eyes darted to the sector, but she kept her mouth shut; that was not her assigned sector. Even so, she saw nothing on scope but the two C-130s well to the north. She could hear the other controller trying to contact the bogey, to no avail. She spotted the blip on the second sweep. It was gone again, then back. Her chest tightened: that was almost the same thing she’d seen before the air pirate attack. Her fear only eased slightly a second later. The senior controller had seen it as well: he dashed down the aisle and stood over the controller in front of her. “Classify new contact as a Nevermore. Bearing one two zero, heading now zero two zero, speed four hundred, angels twenty.”

“Where the hell did that come from?” Jeff whispered to Cummings. She shrugged; stealthy GRIMM like the Nevermore could usually evade ground radar. That was the purpose of the AWACS patrols. It was detected now, though. 

“Beacon Control, this is Regency 26,” the senior controller was radioing Beacon. “We have a Nevermore heading for the Barrier.”

Cummings flipped on her radio. “Rock 22, Wolf Den 34, be advised, GRIMM to the south, range two hundred. Wolf Den 34, maintain course; Rock 22, shift your course north twenty miles, acknowledge.”

_Crow 13_

_Near Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_1325 Local_

Qrow Branwen took off his oxygen mask and massaged his face. He regretted not shaving that morning; his oxygen mask really didn’t have the best seal unless he did. He was also breaking regulations by not shaving for four days, but Qrow had always regarded regulations as being basically suggestions. It was one reason why he was flying for Ozpin more or less directly rather than being assigned to any unit, much less the USAF’s dedicated F-117 unit at Holloman in New Mexico. 

He checked his navigation suite and came right a bit. The Nighthawk had an autopilot, but he preferred to hand fly as much as he could. It was a nice day out, and he was skimming along at around fifteen thousand feet. His radar transponder was off, and the faceted fuselage of the F-117 made him more or less invisible to radar—including that of the AWACS. Qrow liked doing this, to see if he could slip past the Eberle radar. Today, it wasn’t a lark, but a test, to see how the F-22 might have sneaked up on Regency 26. The Raptor had a radar signature slightly greater than the Nighthawk, but only slightly. Still, he might get picked up by the AWACS, if the radar got enough of a return from the F-117. The design of the aircraft scattered radar signals in all directions, but it was still possible to get a return. He remembered a time over Yugoslavia when a SAM battery had nearly locked onto him. 

Then he heard the radio call from Regency 26 about the Nevermore. Qrow fastened his oxygen mask and thought a moment. He was supposed to fly to Ellsworth and take over the investigation on the Torchwick escape from Glynda, who had returned to Beacon, but GRIMM were GRIMM. His F-117 was modified for air combat: it carried four Sidewinders and a gunpod, all in an expanded internal weapons bay. Not ideal for engaging a Nevermore, but it would be a start. 

Qrow reached forward and touched a button. On the spine of the F-117, a small panel popped open and activated a transponder, giving away his position; the last thing he needed was the AWACS thinking he was another GRIMM. “Regency 26, Crow 13, I’m in the area. I can intercept.” He pushed up the throttle and turned north.

_Base Headquarters_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_1330 Local_

Ozpin, Ironwood, and Glynda Goodwitch—still in her flight suit—were gathered around Ozpin’s desk. He had gathered them together to go over what had gone wrong with Penny, expecting the phone call from the Secretary of Defense at any moment. Dreading might be a better word: Ozpin knew that, after the incidents with Ruth, Yang and now Penny, a summary relief was not out of the question. 

The phone rang and Ozpin put it on speaker as he picked it up, but it wasn’t the Secretary. “Captain Ozpin, this is the tower. Regency is tracking a Nevermore headed in our direction, about a hundred miles off.”

“Anything else?” Ozpin asked.

“Not at the moment, sir.”

“Very well. Who is on alert five?”

“Cardinal Flight, sir.”

“Scramble them now.” Ozpin quickly consulted a list he kept by his computer. “Has Funky Flight departed yet?”

“No, sir, they’re still here,” the Beacon controller answered.

“Tell them to backstop Cardinal in case they’re needed.” He grabbed a pencil, and quickly scratched off Bronze Flight; they had left Beacon the day before for home, their part in the exercise over. Coffee, Sun, Funky, Auburn and Indigo were still on base, as well as Glynda and her F-22 and Ciel Soleil with her F-15. And there was also Ruby Flight.

As Ozpin hung up, Ironwood looked at him. “Ozpin, no reason to scramble anything else. We’ve still got the Barrier, you know.”

“I know.” Ozpin had never really had much confidence in the four SAM batteries covering the Mississippi from Prairie du Chien to Superior; they hadn’t been much use in the Battle of La Crosse because so many friendly aircraft were in the area. 

Someone began knocking on the door. “Come in,” Ozpin called out. Ruby, Jaune and Pyrrha burst in. “Captain Ozpin, we’ve got something we need to tell you, right now!” Ruby yelled.

“No reason to shout, Lieutenant; I’m right here.” He saw Pyrrha. “Major Nikos. Let me be the first to say that what happened this afternoon was not your fault.”

“Actually, you’re about the third person to say that,” Pyrrha sighed. She felt the old black cloak of depression settling over her: she’d killed again. 

Glynda caught the expression on Pyrrha’s face. “Major. Pyrrha. This is _not_ your fault. You saved hundreds of lives today.”

“I couldn’t save all of them.”

Ruby gave Pyrrha a reassuring look, then stepped forward. “Captain, sir, there’s something you need to know.”

Ozpin turned his attention to her. “You have the floor, Lieutenant.”

Ruby spotted the envelope on Ozpin’s desk. She quickly opened it and shuffled out the prints. “These were taken by Major Fall—Cinder Fall’s gun camera over La Crosse. Ruth found them.” Glynda, Ozpin and Ironwood peered at the photographs.

“That’s Fox Alasdair and Velvet Scarlatina’s Tornado,” Glynda observed.

“Right.” Jaune got up next to Ruby and held up the note Ruth had written. “Ruth was in charge of getting gun camera confirmation of everyone’s kills. She found these. According to her note, she confronted Cinder with it and Cinder said it was friendly fire.”

“Yes, Lieutenant Arc, we can read,” Ozpin said. 

“Yeah,” Ruby replied, forgetting rank, “but what if it was _deliberate?_ What if…oh, shit…” The truth dawned on Ruby. “Ruth—“

“Ruth Lionheart was murdered,” Ironwood finished. “That stays in this room.”

“So first Ruth, because Cinder was trying to kill Fox and Velvet. Then Mercury, because someone forged the form to load Yang’s F-15 with live rounds—“

“That was Cinder as well,” Ozpin interrupted. “All right. Unfortunately this does us no good, Lieutenant. Cinder Fall has disappeared. She drove off base yesterday—undoubtedly to evade capture. Emerald Sustrai is confined to quarters; we haven’t determined if she was in on this yet.”

“She has to be!” Jaune exclaimed. Then he remembered where he was. “Sir. When Emerald ‘shot down’ Coco during the exercise a few days ago? Coco said she never picked up Emerald’s radar signature before Emerald fired. Coco was flying my Mirage, sir, and there was nothing wrong with the aircraft.”

“He has a point,” Glynda said to Ozpin. 

“Very well. Lieutenant Rose, I want you to go to the Security Forces guard on your barracks room. Tell him he’s relieved. As of this moment, Ruby Flight is restored to flight status. Major Nikos, wait outside. You as well, Lieutenant Arc.”

Ruby grinned from ear to ear. “Yes, sir!” She gave him a salute—although they were inside, and it was against regulations—and dashed out the door. Pyrrha and Jaune followed her, closing the door behind them.

“It all fits,” Ironwood said. “We were infiltrated from the beginning. Cinder, Mercury, possibly even Emerald. The question is, who are they working for?” He answered his own question a moment later. “Salem.”

“They were probably supposed to help the White Fang attack Beacon, but Ruby Flight tripped the attack early. They stayed undercover and kept sabotaging Vytal Flag,” Glynda put in.

“And getting the people of the world to lose faith in the military and their governments.” Ozpin nodded. “Salem’s modus operandi from the beginning.” 

The phone rang. Ozpin picked it up. “Captain Ozpin!” Secretary of Defense Jason Terasoma’s voice crackled. “What in the hell happened today! You’re in big—“

“I’ll call you back,” Ozpin replied calmly, and hung up. Ironwood and Glynda shared his smile. “Always wanted to do that.” He picked up the phone again, and dialed Base Ordnance. “Major Logan. I want every aircraft we have loaded. Full fuel and weapons; load air to air. We’re not going on alert just yet, but I want everything ready to go. Understand? Good man.” Ozpin put down the phone. 

Ironwood headed for the door. “I’m putting Emerald under arrest and getting her into the stockade. We don’t know who we can trust now, and they might try to kill her to keep her from talking.”

_Battery Charlie, 167 th Air Defense Artillery Regiment (Wisconsin National Guard)_

_Near Trempeleau, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_1345 Hours Local_

Lieutenant Spencer Kelly finished his cigarette and tossed it into a mud puddle, making sure it was out. The last thing they needed was another grass fire. He then walked into the control van for Battery Charlie. “How’s it looking, Sarge?”

Sergeant Brooks Quinn looked over his shoulder. “Pretty good, LT. It’s a single Nevermore. Should be in range in three minutes.”

“We have authorization to shoot from the SADCO?” Kelly referred to the Sector Air Defense Commander, in this case located on Regency 26.

“Yeah. Just waiting for the word from the major.”

Kelly sat down in one of the three seats in the van. Battery Charlie consisted of six launchers of MIM-104 Patriot surface-to-air missiles, with a total of 24 missiles. They covered the zone from La Crosse to Buffalo City, along the Wisconsin side of the Mississippi River. Stationed with the battery was the guidance radar, which had already picked up the Nevermore, though it was having trouble locking on. Each crew was drawn from the Wisconsin National Guard, who were rotated through the Barrier every month, and Kelly’s battery was eager. They’d had to hold fire during the Battle of La Crosse, and the Air Force and the Navy had gotten all the credit. They usually did. Now the Army would get its chance.

That reminded Kelly of something. “Beacon scrambled its CAP, right?”

“Yes, sir. They’re holding east of us. If we don’t kill the bastard, they’ll finish it off.”

“Good.” The fighter pilots tended to get too eager for kills, and though friendly fire incidents were rare, they also weren’t unknown. 

“Battery Charlie, this is the TD.” Kelly slipped on his headset. It was the tactical director, a major at La Crosse. 

“Battery Charlie, go.”

“You are authorized to engage the Nevermore.” The order was terse and to the point.

“Roger. Engaging.” Kelly turned to Quinn. “Sarge, engage.” Quinn nodded, and switched the Patriot system from standby mode to operational mode. He selected two launchers, Bravo and Charlie, which trained out from their fixed positions. “Locked on.”

“Shoot.”

Quinn switched the mode to ENGAGE. “Birds away.” The ground shook as two of the batteries ripple fired eight missiles. It was automatic from this point: an uplink in each of the missiles’ tails picked up targeting information from the Patriot’s radar, and curved up and west. Each missile carried two hundred pounds of high explosive, enough to hopefully bring the Nevermore down. Quinn’s fingers hovered on Charlie and Delta launchers, preparing to fire them if it was necessary. 

_Crow 13_

_Near Former Rochester, Minnesota Dead Zone, United States of Canada_

_1350 Hours Local_

Qrow tailed the Nevermore from ten miles. The Nevermore had radars that faced in every direction, and had he been flying a non-stealthy aircraft, it would have picked him up by now, but the F-117 was not dectected. His transponder was retracted, not just so the Nevermore wouldn’t pick him up, but also against the small possibility one of the Patriots would. That had happened before, one of the stories he didn’t tell Ruby or Yang.

He could see the white trails of the missiles. The Patriots had climbed to nearly 75,000 feet before they would descend on the Nevermore. He wondered how many would get through: the Nevermore’s stealth might defeat some of the missiles, while the gun batteries on the GRIMM would account for more. He had no intention of closing in unless he had to; let the Army earn their pay.

One of the Patriots had already lost lock, and was going its own way, harmlessly curving to the north. The other five stayed locked on. Qrow climbed a little, so he could see how many survived the barrage of antimissile fire.

There was none.

All five missiles hit, tracing a perfect pattern of hits down the delta wing of the Nevermore. Flames burst from hits, and the GRIMM lost altitude. Qrow got ready to let Regency know the target was destroyed, but then the GRIMM struggled back up to almost its original altitude and kept flying. 

_Battery Charlie_

_1352 Hours Local_

“Still on scope,” Quinn said. “We’ve got five confirmed hits, but it’s still up there.”

“Hit him again,” Kelly ordered. Quinn switched on Delta and Echo launchers.

Unknown to either man, deep inside the computer system of the 167th ADA, the Black Queen virus was already active. Since Cinder had uploaded it weeks before, it had lurked inside the main computer at Beacon, disguising itself as an antivirus program. The actual antivirus system recognized it as friendly, and did not go after it. It then slowly replicated itself, infiltrating a number of systems, not just at Beacon, but across the Army units as well. It wasn’t as successful as Arthur Watts hoped—it actually infiltrated only a few systems, having been written to avoid detection more than to infect. One of the systems the Black Queen _had_ infected, however, was the 167th ADA’s radar and control systems. It had lain dormant, until the system was switched on to engage the Nevermore. Now the Black Queen woke up, and took control. 

Quinn had not pressed the engage switch before Delta launcher fired two missiles, then rotated around to the east, and fired two more. Alpha launcher suddenly trained itself out to the north, and fired four missiles as well. 

“What the fuck?” Quinn yelled. 

“What happened?” Kelly asked. “Did you shoot?”

“No! I don’t fucking know! It’s engaging on its own!” He checked the radar. “Oh shit. It’s reading every contact as enemy.”

“Oh, Christ!” Kelly screamed. “Shut it down!”

Quinn reached out and switched the system back into standby. This worked: the launchers resumed their initial position. “Do _not_ turn that fucker back on!” Kelly was out of his seat, and thumbed the radio channel to Guard. “All aircraft, La Crosse area! Bittersweet, repeat, bittersweet!” This was a warning to every friendly aircraft that SAMs were in the air and a friendly fire situation was developing. Then he looked at the radar data. “Buddy lock! All aircraft, La Crosse area, buddy lock!”

_Crow 13_

_1354 Local_

Qrow saw the Patriots rising up again. Two curved towards the burning Nevermore, but one shifted from its track, towards him. The radar had gotten just enough of a hit to classify him as a bandit. 

“Shit, not _again!”_ Qrow yelled. He didn’t break away just yet: he waited a precious two seconds as the missile closed in. Then he rolled over and dived hard, away from the Patriot. The missile, unable to compensate for the sudden turn, and without a decent lock to begin with, flew harmlessly past. Qrow came out of the dive and looked to his left: the Nevermore was hit again, and this time began to break up, losing huge pieces before it almost gently went into a shallow dive and hit the side of a ridge.

“What the hell is going on?” he asked no one in particular.

_Cardinal Flight_

_1355 Local_

Cardin Winchester had been alternately bored and excited, if that was possible. Engaging a Nevermore was never a fun prospect, but those three kill marks beneath his canopy were getting lonely. Instead of rocketing over the Mississippi and engaging the Nevermore, he was stuck in a holding pattern with Russel Thrush, Dove Bronzewing, and Sky Lark, waiting for the Army pukes to wake up and do their damn job. 

He’d seen the missiles launch—Charlie Battery was below and to the right, and it had disappeared behind him as he made his circle. He craned his head around and followed the missile trails, but he couldn’t see if they hit or not; the Nevermore was still not in visual range. He didn’t hear a splash call from Regency or the Army, so Cardin assumed they’d screwed it up again, either a clean miss or a damaged. He hoped for the former; no way in hell was Cardin Winchester going to share a kill with some groundpounder. 

Then, as he came around, he saw the four missile trails reaching out for him, and heard the buddy lock call. “Fuck!” he screamed. “Cardin, buddy lock!” 

“Dove, buddy lock!”

“Sky, buddy lock!” Their voices were overriding and overlapping each other.

The flight instantly fell apart. Russel alone was not engaged; the missile fired at him just happened to be the last, and it malfunctioned when the battery went into standby mode. The missile flew to parts unknown, but the rest of Cardinal was in trouble.

Cardinal did as Qrow did: he waited until he felt like his rear end was grabbing his backbone and his bladder was about to let go, then flung the F-15 towards the missile. Like Qrow, the missile could not compensate for the sudden change in aspect by the target; it detonated anyway, almost in hope that it might fulfill its programming, but the fragments missed Cardin entirely.

Sky timed his turn and dive a fraction too late. He was flying a borrowed USAF F-16, and he was just unfamiliar enough with its flying characteristics, compared to the Hawk he had flown before, that he reacted too fast. Instead of the missile losing lock and missing, it compensated, and exploded just behind the F-16. Most of the tail was torn apart, and the engine absorbed even more damage. The F-16 pitched up. Sky looked at his instrument panel, which was lighting up with fire and system loss warnings. Sky rolled his eyes, tightened his straps, and for the second time since he’d been at Vytal Flag, ejected over the eastern shore of the Mississippi River.

“Cardin, you’re clear!” Russel called out. “Sky’s hit!”

Cardin breathed a prayer and leveled out, looking for both more missile trails and his flight. He saw Sky’s F-16 in a flat spin, headed for the water, but as he watched, a parachute blossomed above the smoke column. He turned and flew past; Sky waved both hands to show he was all right. “Beacon, Cardin,” he called out. “Sky’s down near Trempeleau. Dove, where are you?” There was no response. He couldn’t see the CF-18. “Dove, Cardin, come in.”

“Cardin, Russel.” Russel’s voice was heavy with emotion. “Dove’s gone.” Cardin then saw the fourth smoke column, one that ended in a fireball that hit the trees and turned into a black mushroom cloud. “No beeper, no chute.”

Cardin called out helplessly for another minute, but Dove Bronzewing never replied. 

_Wolf Den 34_

_Near Durand, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_1355 Local_

Major Jacob Gagnon stared out the circular window of the C-130 Hercules, watching the St. Croix River slide by below. Most of his men—2 Troop, C Squadron of Delta Force—dozed in the mesh seats that lined the interior of the C-130; the troop’s equipment was stowed in the middle. Bored, he decided to unstrap and go up to the cockpit. He enjoyed flying, but if he had a choice, he’d be in something with jets. The C-130 was ironically nicknamed the European Whisper Jet, and crews claimed it was pressurized to keep the noise _inside._ His men had been issued ear protectors, but because Gagnon wanted to chat with the crew, he took his out. Instantly, he was assaulted with the roar of the four Allison turboprops. 

He stepped up to the cockpit; the view was much better there. The flight engineer turned to him. “Afternoon, Major. We’re still about thirty minutes or so out from Beacon. Might have to circle a bit; they just had a scramble.”

Gagnon sat down in the jump seat, and grabbed a headset slung over a hook behind him, so he wouldn’t have to yell. “What happened?”

“A GRIMM was sighted over southern Minnesota. A Nevermore. They’re going to get it with Patriots, and—“

“What the hell is _that?”_ The C-130 pilot said, and pointed upwards through the eyebrow windows of the glasshouse cockpit. A smoke trail was heading towards them. Then he heard Battery Charlie’s warning. “Oh _shit!_ Wolf Den 34, buddy spike!” 

Gagnon’s eyes widened as he saw the smoke trail suddenly disappear, which meant the missile was now pointed directly at them. The pilot grabbed the throttles and rammed them forward, then pushed the control wheel hard to the right and down. The copilot hit the C-130’s countermeasures; luckily the aircraft had been configured with them. Flares poured out of launchers towards the rear of the aircraft, leaving a smoke pattern like that of an angel’s wings. Gagnon, who grabbed both straps of the jump seat and held on, knew it was a useless gesture: the Patriot was radar-guided. He closed his eyes and murmured a Hail Mary: the C-130 was a transport, not a fighter, and even a fighter would struggle to dodge a Patriot.

But then the crew of Wolf Den 34 got a break. When the radar was switched to standby, it lost lock on the C-130. The missile’s electronic brain still remembered generally where the target was, and remained on course until it detonated. Instead of the missile’s warhead tearing the C-130 apart, most of the fragments missed. Two hit the tail for superficial damage, but more hit the port wing. 

“Help me hold the bitch!” the pilot screamed, and the copilot grabbed the control wheel. With their combined effort, they got the C-130 back to level flight, but as the pilot went to pull back the throttles, the transport suddenly heeled to the left. Both crew fought the controls, and once more it leveled out, but Gagnon, opening his eyes, could tell they were fighting it.

“Bob, tell me some good news,” the pilot yelled over his shoulder.

The flight engineer looked at his panel, and although Gagnon was not a pilot, even he knew there wasn’t any good news. “We got problems, babe. Number one’s gone, and we’re losing oil pressure on number two. Don’t have much longer on that one. Got fire lights.” He pulled both extinguishers. “Losing fuel, too.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Okay, feather one and two. Shut two down.” The pilot tested the controls as the copilot yanked back the throttles for the two engines on the port wing. “Other than she keeps pulling towards the dead engines, I think we can hold her.”

“Fire’s out,” the flight engineer reported.

The pilot was now leaning into the controls. “Fuck. We’re not going to make Beacon.” He hit the radio switch. “Beacon Control, Beacon Control, this is Wolf Den 34, declaring an emergency. We’ve got two engines out and heavy damage. Cannot make Beacon, advise.”

Through the headphones, Gagnon could hear the reply. “Wolf Den 34, Beacon. Understand you are declaring an emergency. Can you make Eau Claire at zero-nine-zero?”

The pilot glanced out the window to the left. “Negative, Beacon; I think we’ll lose the wing if we try.”

“Wolf Den 34, Beacon. Bloyer Field is at two-zero-one, your one o’clock low. It’s got one runway, but you should make it in. That’s the nearest field, over.”

“You want to get picky and make it a field?” the pilot chuckled. “Roger that, Beacon; we can make Bloyer. Make sure they know we’re coming. Wolf Den 34, out.”

Gagnon pulled off his headset and jumped down to the main cabin. It was a mess: none of the men had been strapped in, since they were not on approach yet, and they had been thrown around the cabin. Luckily, none of their gear, lashed to the deck, had broken loose. He shouted over the engine noise. “Check in! Everyone all right?”

He saw thumbs up and yells of confirmation. None of them seemed to be badly hurt, though Master Sergeant Hopkins was looking at his arm, working his fingers to get feeling back in them. The troop’s medic saw him and went over to check.

“Major!” Gagnon turned to see the flight engineer waving for his attention. The lieutenant pulled off his headset and cupped his hands to make himself heard. “Get your men into crash positions! We’re coming in hard!”

“That’s what she said!” Hopkins yelled out, then yelled something else more earthy as the medic straightened his arm. Gagnon evaluated the wound expertly: it was a broken arm, but not a serious fracture.

He helped his troop into the seats, then resumed his own, watching out the window. He saw both engines on that side stopped, the propellers feathered, smoke still streaming from them, along with a clear liquid he knew was fuel. He tightened the straps as the ground got closer and closer.

“Brace!” the flight engineer shouted. Gagnon crossed his arms in front of himself and leaned forward.

The C-130 landed in the overrun, the crew taking all the runway they could. They held off on throwing the remaining propellers into reverse pitch, which could throw the transport into a deadly groundloop. Instead, both pilot and copilot leaned on the toe brakes, and a screeching noise resounded through the cabin, and Gagnon’s view was obscured by white smoke. There was a bang as one tire blew, and then the crew reversed the propellers. The C-130 began to fishtail and slew, but somehow the crew kept it roughly on the centerline. The skidding noise lessened in volume, the aircraft began to slow, and finally it came to a halt.

Gagnon was already out of his seat. “Get up! Leave the kit!” The back of the fuselage opened as the flight engineer lowered the loading ramp, while Gagnon grabbed the crew door on the opposite side of the aircraft and levered it open. He then counted off his men as they ran out the rear ramp or out his door. Once he was sure they were out, Gagnon jumped out the door himself. The crew was right behind him, the pilot—as custom—the last to leave the aircraft.

They moved away from the C-130, half expecting the overheated brakes to touch off the fuel. Army personnel were swarming the aircraft with handheld fire extinguishers; Bloyer Field was on Fort McCoy, but it evidently wasn’t used for more than helicopters. 

A tall brunette dressed in tanker fatigues ran up to him. “Major! Are you all right?”

He read the nametape, and quickly looked up; this Captain Karelia Bighorn-Vlata’s figure was not hidden by the fatigues. “I’m fine, Captain. What’s your unit?”

She abruptly remembered to salute. “2nd Battalion, 37th Armored.”

Gagnon returned the salute. “Well, Captain, assuming the C-130 doesn’t blow up, we’re going to get our stuff off. We’ve been ordered to Beacon by General Ironwood. Can you secure us transport?”

She smiled. “You bet, Major. Be right back.”

The medic came up to Gagnon. “No injuries, sir, other than Sergeant Hopkins. I think he’s got a greenstick fracture. Nothing serious.”

“Okay. Carry on.” He shook his head. “That was a hell of a way to arrive.”

He looked up at the sound of turboprops. It was another C-130 in the distance, headed for Beacon. He wondered who it was.


	78. This Will Be the Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The White Fang begin their assault on Beacon--with Sienna leading the ground assault and Adam attacking anything that tries to take off. But if that wasn't bad enough, the biggest GRIMM ever seen is spotted headed for Beacon.
> 
> And Cinder's back, too.

_Rock 22_

_Near Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_14 May 2001_

_1400 Hours Local_

Sienna Khan balanced herself between the pilot and copilot’s seats as the C-130 flew through a bit of turbulence. She checked her watch. They’d had to move up their attack time, as Salem’s “surprise” was running a little early. She didn’t like it: instead of going in around dinner time, when JRB Beacon could be expected to be relaxing at the end of the day, the White Fang were attacking in broad daylight, in the middle of the afternoon. Then again, that in itself could be an advantage, and it was certainly working to their advantage to be following Wolf Den 34 past the Mississippi River. 

Octavia was flying the C-130; she was the only White Fang operative in North America with multiengine qualification. In the copilot’s seat was Roman Torchwick, who had some time on multiengine aircraft as well. Sienna glanced behind her: there were thirty soldiers in the back, all dressed in captured fatigues with white White Fang jerkins. 

Sienna reached forward and tapped Roman on the shoulder. He nodded. “Beacon, Rock 22. We’ve developed engine trouble. We’re going to need to put down.”

“Rock 22, Beacon. Did you get hit?”

“Ah, negative, Beacon. We’ve been fighting engine problems for the past week. Had to put in at Hector.”

“Are you declaring an emergency, Rock 22?”

Roman hesitated. “Negative, Beacon,” he finally replied. “Just playing it safe.”

Beacon Tower hesitated as well. After a moment, they came back on. “Roger, Rock 22. You are cleared to land on Runway 03 Left. Visibility is twelve miles with scattered to broken clouds, winds are calm. No other traffic your area.”

“Much obliged, Beacon.” Roman waited until Octavia had begun her turn for approach, then drew back the throttle for engine number four. “Feathering four?”

Octavia pushed the other throttles forward to compensate. “Why?”

“In case someone is watching us through binoculars.” He looked back at Sienna. “Seven minutes.” She nodded, took off her headset, and dropped back down to the hold, holding up seven fingers. 

_Moonslice_

_Near Black River Falls, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_1405 Hours Local_

Adam Taurus grinned behind his oxygen mask as he hurtled over ridges, bending trees in his wake. He’d taken a big chance: he’d flown at high speed and low level since leaving Hector, rather than trying to fly in close formation with the C-130 so their radar signatures would blend together. Adam was betting that the AWACS would be too busy dealing with the Nevermore, and over the lakes and forests of northern Minnesota, the E-3’s radar would be degraded. So far, it had worked, but their luck could not hold for much longer. 

The assault would begin in two minutes, according to the clock on his instrument panel. As he went over one ridge, he looked at his fuel. The two drop tanks underneath the Moonslice’s wings were running close to empty. He’d hold onto them as long as he could before dropping them, to wring every last bit of fuel from them. The Moonslice didn’t have a lot of internal fuel.

His Radar Warning Reciever beeped for his intention, and Adam’s eyes instantly went towards the threat display. An air search radar was looking at him. “Neo, you’d better be doing your job,” he said. He didn’t have the fuel to dogfight. Not yet.

_Cardinal Flight_

_Near Tunnel Hill, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_1407 Hours Local_

“Whoa, what’s that?” Russel Thrush looked at his radar display in the center of the instrument panel. “Cardin, Russel, I’ve got a bogey bearing zero seven one, twenty miles.” There was no response. “Cardin, Russel.”

Cardin was still staring at the smoking remains of Dove Bronzewing’s F-18. He’d called for his friend a dozen times, but there was no response. There was no beeper or parachute. Cardin could not believe that Dove was gone. He heard Russel’s call, but could not find his voice. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be.

And in doing so, Cardin made two near fatal mistakes: he lost situational awareness, and he flew in a straight line. As a result, he never saw the blood red F-22 suddenly drop out of the clouds. Neo smiled, centered the gunsight between the two engines of Cardin’s F-15, and fired a Sidewinder. 

The shriek of his RWR broke Cardin out of his shock, and he slammed the stick to one side, dropping flares. His reflexes saved him: the Sidewinder tracked on one of the flares and exploded. He looked behind the twin tails and saw the F-22 dropping down behind him. “Russel, I got a Raptor climbing up my ass!”

Russel, who had been turning east to identify the bogey, saw Cardin in a hard left break, the F-22 hot on his tail. “Fuck! Where the hell did he come from?” He snapped the stick over and felt the G-suit squeeze hard as he racked the F-16 hard to the left. The Raptor flew into his gunsight: it would be a tough deflection shot, but Russel fired a Sidewinder anyway; if nothing else, it would force the bandit off Cardin’s tail. 

Neo had seen the F-16 curving in out of the corner of her eye. She skidded the Raptor, using its vectored thrust to suddenly change direction, rotating the nose away from Cardin and her engines away from the Sidewinder, while dropping flares herself. The missile, which never had a great lock to begin with, sailed past, and now Russel was in range. Neo switched to guns and opened fire as they passed head-on. Cannon shells flew down the F-16’s underslung intake and along the lower fuselage, and smashed into the engine.

“Oh shit!” Russel shouted. Fire warning lights went on instantly, and he could feel the fighter losing power. “Cardin, Russel, I’m hit. I gotta get out. Sorry.” He braced himself, reached between his legs, and pulled the ejection handle.

Neo smiled as she saw the pilot eject from the burning F-16. Now it was just her and the F-15. She pressed the radio button. “Neo to Adam. You’re clear.”

_Base Headquarters_

_1409 Hours Local_

Ozpin’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Are you sure, General?”

“We’re sure, Captain,” Major General Miguel Calavera replied. “We’ve had to shut down the entire barrier. We’re afraid if we switch the SAMs back on, they’ll just start engaging everything that flies again. As it is, they shot down two friendly fighters and forced a C-130 to crashland at Camp McCoy, as well as the Nevermore. It’s some sort of systemwide computer error…or it’s an act of sabotage.”

“How so, General?”

“I think we’ve been hacked.”

Ozpin glanced upwards as Pyrrha and Jaune were ushered back in the office by Glynda. Then a light began blinking on the phone; the control tower was trying to reach him. “General, wait one, please.” He put Calavera on hold and punched the button. “Ozpin.”

“Control tower, sir. Something weird’s going on. Cardinal Flight is still over by La Crosse—what’s left of them. They’re engaged with a F-22, and—and we just lost Russel Thrush. He just got shot down. Russel reported tracking a bogey before then, but we think it was a different contact.”

Ozpin went pale. “What’s in our airspace right now?”

“Just Rock 22—a C-130 with engine trouble. Landing right now.”

“Sound air raid warning. Scramble all fighters.”

“Sir?” the senior controller asked.

“You heard me. Scramble everything we have. I don’t want to be caught on the ground.” The controller gave an affirmative and hung up. He got Calavera back on the line. “General, we may be under attack. I’m putting everything I have in the air. I suggest you go on alert, just the same.”

“Will do, Captain. Listen—I’ve got 2 Troop of Delta Force at Camp McCoy; they were on the C-130 that crashlanded.”

“James had mentioned he’d requested them, just in case the White Fang should attack.” Ozpin didn’t mention that he thought it was overkill. Delta Force were the very best the United States had; they were far better than the White Fang. 

“Yeah. I thought about bringing them out here, but if Beacon’s under attack, it sounds like you need them more than me. I’ll get them to you most ricky tick.” Ozpin smiled at the latter; it was an old expression from the Vietnam War that had made it into American military lexicon. 

“It can’t hurt, General. Thank you. I’ll call you back when I know more.” Ozpin hung up as air raid sirens began to go off around the base. “Major Nikos, Lieutenant Arc—we’re scrambling. Get to your aircraft immediately.”

“About Amber, sir—“ Pyrrha began.

He held up a hand. “Worry about her later. Go.” Both came to attention and then dashed out the door. Glynda began to go as well, but Ozpin stopped her. “Hold on a moment, Glynda.”

“Why? I need to get into the air too.”

“Not yet,” Ozpin said. “This is just beginning.”

_Building 91213 (Female Officers’ Quarters)_

_1411 Hours Local_

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but you can’t relieve me,” the air policeman said, hands behind his back. “Until I get a direct order from my superior officer or from Captain Ozpin, I have to stay at my post.”

Ruby almost stomped her foot in frustration. “But Airman, I’m telling you, he told me to tell you that you’re relieved!”

The air policeman shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but—“ The air raid sirens went off, and the loudspeaker blared _“Active air scramble. This is no drill.”_

The dorm room door opened and Blake stuck her head out. “Ruby? What the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know, but we’re back on flight status!” She stared daggers at the airman. “Captain Ozpin said so!”

“Let’s go.” Blake flung open the door. Ruby dashed in and stripped down to her underwear; Weiss was already pulling her flight suit on. Yang was doing the same, as Zwei ran around, yipping, knowing something was wrong, by the urgency of the humans and the noise of the alarm. Blake tossed Ruby’s flight suit towards her and grabbed her own. They were all suited up in a minute, even if Yang was still struggling to get her zipper over her bosom as they headed out.

“Hey!” the air policeman said as Yang left the room, his hand going to his pistol. “You can’t leave! You’re still under—“

Yang fixed him with a look. “Listen, asshole,” she snarled. “I’m getting in my aircraft. I’m scrambling with my flight. You have two choices. You can shoot me or you can let me go. Which is it?”

The airman hesitated. As Ruby Flight headed for the stairs, he tagged along, deciding that at least this way he was still technically keeping an eye on Yang.

_Rock 22_

_1413 Hours Local_

Octavia smoothly taxiied the C-130 to the transient aircraft tarmac, following the airman guiding her in with hand signals. For added effect, she feathered the number three engine, then stopped the engines entirely. “We’re here,” she called out.

Sienna cracked her back, checked the M4, and clicked the safety off. “Remember the plan!” she shouted to her soldiers. “I will lead Team One to the pilots’ dorms and kill them. Ilia, you’ll take Team Two and destroy the aircraft—Roman, you follow them and take your pick.”

Roman unstrapped from the copilot’s seat. “Sounds like fun.”

She pointed to a goateed bat Faunus.“Yuma will take Team Three to the end of the runway. If anything gets in the air, shoot it down. Adam should be making an appearance soon, and he’ll make a few strafing runs.” She didn’t like the last part, but continued on. “Blake Belladonna is to be taken alive. Everyone else is expendable. We may run into Cinder Fall’s team, but I’m not aware of her movements, so we’re not waiting for her. Also, we can expect to get more support from this Salem person, and Neo Politan is on top cover until Roman gets up there to help her. You have thirty minutes! After that, exfiltrate to the north or anyway you can, and meet up at the rally point.” She nodded at them. “Good luck. Let’s make the humans pay for what they’ve done! This is the day we’ve waited for!” She saluted them with an upraised fist. Her soldiers returned it.

Roman opened the rear ramp. The White Fang tensed as one, weapons coming up, hearts hammering. He noticed three or four of the Faunus touch hands, or hold hands for a moment; one hurriedly broke off from the main group to urinate in a bucket. Then the ramp was down. One of the ground crew stuck his head around the side. His eyes widened.

“White Fang!” Sienna shouted.

_“WHITE FANG!”_ they responded, and charged out the back of the ramp.

The first to die were the ground crew that had come out to chock the C-130. With no weapons, they were overrun in a matter of seconds. Next was Ciel Soleil, who was out preflighting her F-15 for a long, sad trip back to Eglin AFB. Ciel and her crew chief spotted the White Fang coming out of the transport; Ciel shouted a warning, and shoved the sergeant out of the way. She went for the .38 pistol in her shoulder holster, but had barely cleared it when Sienna raised her M4 and opened fire. Bullets caught Ciel in the chest and she went down. Sienna quickly jogged towards her as Ciel began to helplessly crawl for the ladder of her aircraft. The White Fang High Leader kicked the pistol aside, turned over the pilot with a toe. Ciel bared bloody teeth at her. “ _Pika twa, cochon,”_ she hissed.

Sienna shot her in the head. Then she pulled a grenade from her web gear, climbed up the ladder to the cockpit, and tossed it in. She ran off as it exploded, blowing the canopy off. She looked at the F-22 parked a few paces distant, and decided to leave it. Roman just might want it. She motioned her troops forward. Her team followed her, as Ilia’s team headed for the dispersal and Yuma’s group headed for the runways. As they did, they saw a F-15 and a F-14 begin to take off, afterburners leaving a white trail of shock diamonds.

So did Adam. He came over the northern perimeter of Beacon, intending to make a strafing run, but then saw the two aircraft rolling down the runway. He broke off his run and rolled left.

Blake was the first out of the FOQ, followed by Ruby. Ruby’s head whipped around. “Whoa! What’s that?” Then it turned, revealing its profile. Her silver eyes widened. “Oh, cool! Forward-swept wings! I’ve never…” Her voice trailed off, as she realized what that meant.

Blake stopped cold. “Moonslice,” she breathed. “Adam.”

“Fuck him!” Yang shouted. “Look!” She pointed. There were at least twenty White Fang coming up Arryn Avenue. 

“Back inside!” Weiss ordered; they were easy targets out in the open. The White Fang saw them, and three of them dropped to one knee and fired. They flung themselves back into the dorm, nearly knocking over Nora, who had been rushing out the stairs, and Velvet, who was running down the hallway, hopping as she pulled on one boot. Bullets shattered the entrance door windows; one ricocheted off and hit the air policeman in the shoulder. 

“Shit!” Nora pulled the airman down the hall. Blood was running from the wound, and she put her hands on it. Blake pulled her ribbon off her ears and threw it to her. “Anybody bring weapons?” she asked. She pulled a knife out of her boot.

“They’re all locked up in the equipment room!” Weiss yelled back.

Ruby reached over and took the air policeman’s pistol out of the holster, checked the clip to see if it was loaded, and slammed it back home. “We got this—eight shots.” 

Yang grinned wanly. “Well, maybe we can get them to line up in a row.”

Adam shook his head minutely; it was almost too easy. He closed the distance fast and switched to guns, aiming for the F-15 first. He pulled the trigger. Twenty millimeter shells sparkled as they hit the runway in front of the fighter, then miraculously missed the cockpit to march the length of the Eagle. Flames burst from holed fuel tanks. The F-15’s nose came up, then slammed back down, then skidded off the runway, the canopy separating and the pilot ejecting. Adam swept past and shifted to the Tomcat, but it was already in the air and rocketing into a climb he could not hope to match. He broke away and began to circle back for another run at the dispersal.

Pyrrha and Jaune were running down the street, joined by Ren and Fox Alasdair. They too saw the White Fang and went to cover in the park. “Damn,” Fox said. “Anyone bring a gun?”

“Can’t say as I have,” Jaune replied. Two Security Forces came running towards them, in battle gear—the headquarters guards. The White Fang opened fire on them, and both men joined the four pilots under cover. Bullets sang through the trees and branches, scattering leaves over them. The policemen popped up, fired three shots apiece, then dropped back down.

“May I borrow this?” Ren asked, pointing to the SF man’s holster. 

“Help yourself,” the sergeant replied. Ren took the pistol and grabbed the another from the other policeman. “Who’s the best shot?”

“Hand it here,” Pyrrha said. He did so, and they added their fire to the two Security Forces. The combined fire was enough to make the White Fang seek cover.

_Camp McCoy_

_Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_1420 Hours Local_

Major Jacob Gagnon watched as his men loaded their gear into a deuce and a half truck. Sergeant Sean Fletcher walked up to him. “Should be ready to go in about two minutes, sir.”

“Good.” He looked up at the sky. There was smoke on the horizon, and they could see curls of contrails. “Some kind of air battle up there.” He turned as Captain Karelia Bighorn-Vlata ran up to him. “Major,” she said breathlessly, “we just got a report from Beacon. Very strange—they’re reporting they’re under ground attack.”

“Who the hell would be attacking by _ground?”_ Gagnon asked.

“White Fang. A whole bunch of them; at least forty, possibly more. The tower’s still on the air, and they report possible air attack as well.”

“The White Fang?” Fletcher wanted to know. “This deep into the Remnant?”

Gagnon whistled. “Break out your kit!” he shouted. “We’re going into a fight! White Fang are assaulting Beacon!” His men didn’t question the order; they began immediately pulling weapons out of their storage, and grabbing magazines. Fletcher sketched a hasty salute and headed for the truck.

“Anything else, Captain?” Gagnon asked. 

“Not yet, sir.” She paused. “Major, you’re going to be outnumbered.”

Gagnon smiled. “We’re Delta. We’re always outnumbered.”

Bighorn-Vlata smiled back. “Well, sir, excuse me for asking, but…I doubt the White Fang brought antitank weapons with them.” She nodded towards the 1st Armored Division patch on her shoulder.

His smile widened. “How soon can you be ready?”

“Get going, sir. You ever see an Abrams at full speed? We’ll be along presently.”

He slapped her shoulder. “Much obliged, Captain.”

_Front Gate_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_1423 Hours Local_

Airman Michael Naiseth waved down the approaching car. It came to a halt as more gunfire erupted in the distance. Naiseth ducked out of pure instinct as a strange forward-swept wing fighter roared overhead. He went up to the driver’s side window. “Get back!” he shouted. “Base is closed, dumbass! We’re under attack! Move your ass!”

The window rolled down and Cinder Fall stared back at him calmly. She was wearing her flight suit. “Airman, I am Major Fall. Let me onto the base. I need to get to my aircraft immediately.”

The name sounded dimly familiar to the airman; there was something about Major Fall being wanted by the base commander. He looked behind him; the other three men at the gate were about to activate the heavy steel fence that would seal off the front gate. He glanced at the rank on her shoulder, then saluted. “Go on through, ma’am. Park as soon as you can and be careful. We’ve got reports of White Fang coming up the main drag. If you go down Neath Street, you might could work your way around to the dispersal. You have a weapon?”

She nodded. “In the glove compartment.”

He waved her through. “Good luck, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Airman.” He held up a hand, and the guard getting ready to throw the switch waited as Cinder accelerated through the gate. The fence clanged shut behind her, and rubber squealed as she swung onto Neath Street. She found a parking spot behind the hospital, holstered the pistol she’d been hiding behind the driver’s side door, got out, and knocked on the trunk, then opened it.

Mercury Black coughed and got out. He was holding a pump shotgun. “Can’t believe you made me ride in the trunk.”

“And if one of the guards had recognized you? You’re supposed to be dead, remember?” She looked back towards the front gate, now out of sight behind another administration building. “Go find Emerald. If she’s not at the VOQ, she’s probably in the jail. Stay out of sight if you can.”

Mercury hefted the shotgun. “You sure Emerald’s that important?”

Cinder nodded. “We’re not leaving her. She knows too much. Get her—and don’t kill her, Mercury. We need friends right now, not more enemies.”

“Okay. Where are you going?”

Cinder pulled out the pistol again, reached into a pocket, and withdrew a silencer. “I have a doctor’s appointment.”

_Regency 26 (E-3A AWACS)_

_Eberle Line Track 4, Near Clear Lake, Iowa, United States of Canada_

_1425 Local_

“Are we getting anything from Beacon?”

“Only that they’re under heavy ground attack, sir! White Fang!”

“That can’t be right.”

“Beacon is now reporting being under air attack as well. Unknown aircraft.”

“Cardin is still engaged with the Raptor—“

A1C Heather Cummings tried to ignore the uproar around her and concentrate on her sector scan. Her part was still western Minnesota; she wondered how she and the other controllers had missed two fighters. The F-22 made sense, but it was stealthy, and the intermittent radar return had made the crew of Regency 26 think it was Crow 13, still somewhere over southern Minnesota, whoever that was.

Cummings saw a blip come into view on the northwestern edge of the E-3’s radar, roughly around what had been St. Cloud, Minnesota. “What the heck is that?” she murmured to herself. It was moving fairly fast, but the radar return was sketchy, as if it was something else that was stealthy. The E-3 was getting enough of a return to track it, but not enough to identify it. 

Then she saw more blips appear. They sprang into existence in front of the first contact. Then more. She had to notify the senior controller, but seeing him busy for a moment, she took the initiative. “Crow 13, Regency 26, are you still out there?”

A gravelly voice replied. “Still here, Regency. I don’t have my transponder on.”

“We’ve picked up a new contact, bearing, ah, one six zero, speed approximately four hundred, angels…ten thousand. There’s new contacts in front of it. We can’t get a good fix on them—okay, now we’ve got jamming.” That side of her radar went fuzzy. The E-3’s radar would burn through the jamming, but it would take time. Jamming, however, definitely meant enemy. “Can you check it out?”

“Roger that. What was your raid count before the jamming?”

“Approximately eight to ten small bogeys, one intermittent larger one.” She tried to pick out the blips in the snow of the jamming. “Crow 13, I think they’re GRIMM.” She didn’t know about the large one, but the smaller ones’ profile looked like Beowolves. Heads turned in the E-3 as she said the dreaded word.

“On my way.”

_Crow 13_

_Near the Ruins of Eden Prairie, Minnesota, United States of Canada_

_1430 Local_

Qrow Branwen headed northwest as fast as he could. His evasion of the Patriot had left him nearly back to former Rochester, and he’d been giving the Mississippi River Barrier a wide berth. As soon as he heard the call that Beacon was under attack, he’d begun to head east, but then the call from Regency came in. Qrow hated to turn around, but if it was GRIMM, that was a bigger threat than whatever Beacon was facing. 

He climbed as he headed for the contact. GRIMM radar systems were not all that great, and the stealthy F-117 would hide him. Probably, Qrow mused. He went through a bank of clouds, leveled off at twenty thousand feet, and dipped the pointed nose of the Nighthawk down; visibility out of the F-117 was not the best. 

When he saw it, Qrow blinked. He opened his visor and rubbed his eyes. It was still there. His modified Nighthawk did have a radar, but he didn’t dare switch it on and announce his presence to every GRIMM within fifty miles—and there would be a lot of GRIMM to announce it to. Qrow relied on his eyesight, but he couldn’t believe his eyes.

It was, quite simply, the biggest GRIMM he had ever seen. It was at least five hundred feet long, with a wingspan of probably four hundred feet: a wide delta, like a Nevermore, but far larger than even that. In front of it, like pilot fish around a shark, were a dozen Beowolves. 

_How did…where the hell did that come from?_ Qrow thought. _We would’ve detected something that big being built in the Dead Zones. Unless…oh fuck. Unless that came from Salem herself._ There was scattered intelligence, nothing solid, that Salem’s lair, if it existed, was somewhere in Siberia, in the rubble of what had been the Soviet Union. _It could’ve come from there, though it would’ve been launched over a day ago. We would’ve detected it over the Cascadia Barrier, though, we would’ve—_

Then he remembered the report of the sinking of the USS _Cushing._

As Qrow watched, two more Beowolves appeared, and with growing horror, he realized he was looking at an airborne aircraft carrier. He thumbed the radio button, hoping the damned thing wouldn’t detect him. “Regency 26, Crow 13. I’ve got your bandits, including the big one.”

“Roger, Crow 13. Understand bandits.” That meant he was sure they were enemy, and Qrow had never been more sure in his life. “What is it?”

“Raid count is 14 Beowolves, and…some big son of a bitch. Regency, I’ve never seen anything like this.” He read off the dimensions. “Be advised, I am _not_ drunk,” he added.

The controller’s voice was silent. “Understood, Crow 13. Uh…can you intercept?”

“Not a chance, Regency. I wouldn’t do anything more than piss that thing off.” 

“What would you classify it as, Crow 13?”

Qrow hesitated, searching for a good codename. “Regency, classify new aircraft as Wyvern.” It sounded good to him, though wyverns were supposed to be small dragons, not this monster. He couldn’t think of anything else.

“Course and heading?” Regency asked.

Qrow licked suddenly dry lips. “Beacon. It’s headed for Beacon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incidentally, I think this chapter has Neo's longest line to date.


	79. The Fire Rises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The White Fang launch their attack on Beacon, and it's all the pilots can do to survive. And it gets worse: the White Fang are also going for the fighters--after Roman Torchwick gets there first.

_Building 91213 (Female Officers’ Quarters)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_14 May 2001_

_1435 Local_

“Brace the door with something!” Yang yelled. 

“No!” Blake shouted. “Don’t brace it. Let the White Fang come in.”

Yang stared at Blake, who saw the accusation in her friend’s eyes. “We brace the door, they’ll use grenades. We need their rifles.” She motioned to Ruby, who had the air policeman’s pistol. “Ruby, give me that and get on the landing. I’ll hold the door. Velvet, can we move the airman there?”

Velvet tightened Blake’s ribbon around the wounded air policeman’s shoulder. “Yes.”

“Move him upstairs to Ruby Flight’s room. Yang, Weiss, Nora, get up on the landing with Ruby. When the White Fang come in, they’ll only see me. I’m Faunus. They’ll hesitate.” 

“You’d better be right,” Yang told her, and followed the others onto the landing. Nora pulled the fire extinguisher off the wall. Weiss considered running back to the dorm room to get her ceremonial dress sword, but decided there wasn’t time. 

She was right. Though the fire from the hedgerow was slowing the White Fang down, forcing them to dash from cover to cover, they reached the FOQ, their first objective. Octavia knelt, fired off a three-round burst towards the hedgerow, and kicked open the main door. She dashed inside, went to the right towards the stairwell, and found herself nearly face to face with Blake. “Blake?” she asked. “Blake Belladonna?” She began to smile, remembering Blake from their days in the White Fang together. “We’re supposed to take you—“

Blake did not hesitate. Her knife was in her right hand, and she stabbed upwards, the blade entering just below Octavia’s left breast, into her heart. She died with a quizzical look on her face. As she fell, Blake let the knife fall with her, drew the pistol, and fired four times. Two White Fang soldiers went down on the steps before the rest realized they were under fire from the FOQ. She fell back to the landing, dragging Octavia’s carbine with her. With only a second to spare, she tossed the M4 to the first person she saw, which happened to be Weiss.

The door was too small for more than three White Fang to come in at once, but three of them tried. Blake shot one of them in the chest, but Ruby killed the other two with shots to the head. Blake turned to her in surprise. “Ruby, what—“

“Marksmanship award in high school,” Yang said. “Dad taught us how to hunt.” She moved past both of them. “Cover me. I’m going after their hardware.”

“I’ll go with!” Nora hefted the fire extinguisher. They jumped down a half-flight of stairs and reached the bodies, just as two more White Fang burst through the door. Nora let fly with the fire extinguisher, filling the entranceway with foam, and the Faunus fell back. She threw the extinguished at them as Yang gathered up three of the M4s and dashed back up the landing. She handed out the weapons to Weiss and Nora; Blake holstered the pistol and took one for herself. “Now what?” Yang asked. “You’re the Marine; you’ve trained for this ground shit.”

“Back up the stairs,” Blake ordered. “We’ll hold the second floor landing. There’s no one on the first floor; Auburn and Indigo were out on the flightline earlier. That’s a narrow stairwell.”

“Why not stay here?” Ruby said, her eyes still on the door.

“Because next time they’ll use grenades. Move.”

In the hedgerow, Jaune, Pyrrha, Ren, Fox Alasdair and the two Security Force men continued to hold. They were limiting themselves to the occasional sniping shot, just to keep the White Fang under cover; they didn’t have an unlimited amount of ammunition.

“Pyrrha, look,” Jaune pointed through the hedges.

“Damn,” she breathed. She tugged on the sleeve of one of the SF. “Sergeant, they’re flanking us to the right.”

“Or they’re going for the VOQ. Is anyone in there?” the sergeant replied. Then he remembered. “Oh, shit. The general.” He stood, but Pyrrha pulled him back down as a bullet went through the spot he had been in. “Don’t. You’ll never make it.”

“And you don’t have to, man!” The other SF policeman pointed behind them. “Hot damn, here comes the cavalry!”

Two HMMWVs were rolling down Arryn Avenue. The rearmost one was unarmed, but the one in front had a .50 caliber heavy machinegun atop it. They hadn’t seen any heavy weapons among the White Fang; a .50 would be a game changer.

Sienna Khan fought down frustration. Beacon’s personnel had reacted much faster than she’d thought, and already seven of her people were down. She’d sent four of her soldiers to the Visiting Officers’ Quarters, where Cinder had informed them Ironwood was. Killing General James Ironwood would be an achievement in and of itself. 

“High Leader!” one of her soldiers shouted. “Enemy vehicles, front!”

“Oh shit!” someone else yelled. “They’ve got a fifty on that one!”

“Calm down and give me the RPG.” Sienna deliberately kept her voice calm. She was handed the antitank weapon. “Cover me. Spray that hedgerow.” Two of them did, and Sienna dashed forward, raising the tube. She centered the sight and fired. The rocket-propelled grenade made a chuffing noise as it shot forward; a second later it hit the HMMWV in the grill, just as the gunner began tracking on her. The vehicle’s hood blew off, and it skidded off the road into the side of the Bachelors’ Officers Quarters. The crew abandoned it as flames began to spread. Bullets skipping at her heels, she went back to her cover behind the trees in front of the FOQ.   
“How many RPG rounds do we have left?” she asked.

“Just two, High Leader,” a soldier replied. “We brought three Javelins…”

“But those are with Ilia and Yuma.” Sienna smiled. “Well, I doubt we’ll be running into tanks.”

The other HMMWV had stopped, out of range, and troops began to pile out of it. They dived into the ditches to either side of the avenue as Moonslice suddenly roared down the street, twenty millimeter shells tearing apart the HMMWV and killing two men. Adam broke off and flew overhead. Sienna watched the fighter climb into the clouds, then glanced behind her, at the dispersal far in the distance. There were no smoke clouds rising from it. She snapped her fingers at her radioman. “Ask Ilia what she’s doing. She’s supposed to be destroying those fighters by now.”

Ilia Amitola and her team had taken cover behind the equipment building, and she checked her watch for the fifth time. “Ilia,” a deer Faunus asked her, “what are we waiting for?”

“I’m making sure it’s clear. You see how the revetments are placed? It’s so no more than two aircraft can get strafed or bombed at a time, but it’s also a great place to hide!” Ilia flung a hand towards the dispersal. “There could be a hundred troops in there, and we’re only ten!”

“But we have to do something!” the Faunus exclaimed, almost pleading.

Ilia bit back what she wanted to say, which was to shut up. The problem was, he was right: there was no real reason to wait. There was no movement in there since the F-15 and the F-14 had taken off, and they were already on the taxiway. Yuma’s team was surely in position. She briefly considered just shooting her own team, but she’d never get them all before they got her. And her cover as the CIA’s Source Camo had to be preserved; she knew Arashikaze would sacrifice Beacon to maintain that cover, if it came to that, and Ilia had already taken a very risky chance by sparing Sergeant Hofer. She was going to have to attack.

“What the hell is he _doing?”_ another White Fang trooper asked, and Ilia ducked around. 

It was Roman Torchwick. He was running for all he was worth down the taxiway, waving his arms and shouting. “God _damn_ him,” Ilia snarled, but in her mind, she was thanking God for Torchwick. Now they would have to wait to see what happened, and that took time.

Roman Torchwick had grown up on the streets before he’d made it big, working his way up from shoplifting and petty thievery to grand theft auto and building his own gang. One of the skills he’d learned was the art of making people believe what they wanted to see. Amateurs, Roman had noted, always thought someone could see through their disguise. Professionals knew that no one usually even looked. 

He was wearing a flight suit stolen from Hector, so it was standard USAF issue; he was also wearing a stolen helmet, without any markings. It covered his orange hair, and he doubted anyone in the dispersal area would recognize Roman Torchwick—and he wasn’t going to give them a chance to. 

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” he screamed, sprinting down the taxiway. He was soon passing aircraft, and huddled around them were mechanics, crew chiefs and technicians. None were armed, other than with various tools and blunt implements. A bearded black sergeant dashed out from one of the revetments and pulled him into it. “What the hell are you doing?” he shouted at Torchwick. “Sir,” he added, seeing the captain’s bars sewn onto the shoulders of the flight suit.

“There’s White Fang all over the damn base!” Torchwick yelled. “I managed to get around them, but there’s about twenty of the bastards over there!” He pointed right at Ilia’s group, behind the equipment building. “You guys got any guns?”

“We’re working on it. You a pilot?” Other than the rank, there were no identifying marks on the flight suit. 

“Yes, Chief…Vogelmord.” Luckily, Roman recognized the rank. Looking past the sergeant, he saw the red-trimmed F-16 of Ruby Rose, its nose festooned with kill marks. Roman wished he’d brought a grenade to throw down the intake, but the rather large wrench that Vogelmord held would’ve talked him out of it anyway. “You got any spare aircraft? I can get one up, and at least get that fucker off your ass.” Roman pointed to the F-16. “I don’t suppose you can let me borrow that one.” It would be the ultimate in revenge if he could take Little Red’s own aircraft, Roman mused.

“No, sir. What are you rated for? Hell, who _are_ you?” Vogelmord asked.

“Major Gray Haddock. I just came in this morning. I was on the Paladin Project…” Roman let his voice trail off, and shook his head. “Poor Penny.” Then he spotted an aircraft that was almost just as good as stealing Ruby’s. “Listen,” he told Vogelmord. “I was in the Aggressors at Hill. I can fly the shit out of one of those.” He motioned at the desert-camouflaged F-5E that sat kittycorner from the F-16’s revetment, wearing the split roundel of the Royal Jordanian Air Force. “Come on, man! We don’t have time!”

“Yeah, okay. Go for it, sir.” Torchwick threw the chief a salute and dashed over to the F-5. Vogelmord shouted after him. “Hey, is Lieutenant Ember here?”

“Nah, Chief!” one of the mechanics around the F-5 shouted back. “The rest of Indigo Flight is here, but she isn’t!”

“I’ll take it.” Roman didn’t wait for the mechanic’s approval, but bounded up the ladder into the cockpit. As he settled into it, it was like shaking hands with an old friend. He took a moment to run his fingers over the stick and throttle. The mechanic came up after him. “Sir,” he said, “got an oxygen mask and everything, but no G-suit or survival vest.”

“Don’t need it,” Roman answered. “We’ll do this old school.” The mechanic helped him strap in, then dropped down, pulled away the ladder, and moved aside. Roman ran through a hasty preflight, gave the signal to pull the chocks, and began to taxi out, throwing a thumbs-up to the ground crew, actually feeling a little sorry for them. He then reached over and switched the formation lights on the F-5 on, setting them to strobe.

Adam Taurus made another circuit of Beacon, throttling back. He was getting frustrated. He’d held off from strafing the dispersal, partially because his guns weren’t calibrated for air-to-ground, partially because he didn’t want to strafe Ilia’s team by accident. And partially because he wanted the White Fang assault to fail, at least partially, so Blake would get in her F-14 and he could challenge her. He knew it was insane, but deep down, Adam wanted to prove that he was still the better pilot. He was going to bring Blake back into the fold, back to his side, but before he did that, he needed to break her. 

He spotted the F-5 taxiing out, and watched it for a moment. After he’d shot down the F-15 and Ilia’s team had positioned itself, no one else had tried to take off; the F-14 had not hung around to dogfight him, but had headed west. This was a brave soul, Adam mused, but he or she was going to die all the same, either from Ilia’s team using their Javelins on it, or when it would be easy prey when it took off. 

Then he saw the formation lights begin strobing. Adam could not help but smile. “Roman Torchwick,” he said, “you crazy son of a bitch.” He toggled the radio switch. “Neo from Adam. Your boyfriend’s back.”

One of Ilia’s team raised the Javelin, but Ilia saw the lights come on. “I don’t believe it,” she said. “Roman just stole a F-5. He really _is_ a thief.”

He taxiied past them, giving them a quick salute, then went out on the runway, closed the canopy, and took off. The White Fang threw up a cheer. Ilia shook her head at the air pirate’s temerity, but she also knew she no longer had an excuse. 

“He’s out of the way,” she said, barely keeping the sadness out of her voice. “Let’s go.”

Voglemord watched the White Fang dash out from behind cover. Chief Darren Yorse had run over to him. “Arnold,” Yorse sighed, “I think we’ve been had.”

“The fucker was White Fang? He just…oh shit.” Vogelmord remembered. “Roman Torchwick. That bastard had to be Roman Torchwick.”

“And he just stole a fighter right out from under our nose. And these bastards are going to torch the rest of them.” He waved a wrench. “Here the bastards come! Gentlemen, prepare to defend yourselves!” Yorse laughed ironically. “Always wanted to say that—“

He was cut off by the whine of an engine being run up. Both men turned to see the F-8 Crusader of Nebula Violette taxiing out of her hardstand. She swung the nose around onto the taxiway, stopped, and then the aircraft knelt: Nebula lowered the nose wheel, as she would if she was about to be hooked to a catapult for launch from a carrier. It also brought her four twenty millimeter cannon directly in line with Ilia’s team. Nebula pulled the trigger, and the shells pounded down the taxiway. The White Fang scattered; one Faunus was hit and simply disintegrated. 

The mechanics and crew chiefs cheered as Nebula kept moving down the taxiway; because it caused the F-8 to rear up on its main landing gear, her shells were now passing harmlessly over the White Fang and landing around the equipment building, so she ceased fire and stopped. 

“Brave move,” Adam remarked. “I’m almost sorry to do this.” He rolled in. Though his guns were not really suited for strafing, the F-8 made a big target. He dived Moonslice to 200 feet, and opened fire. His shells tore into the Crusader, setting it afire. 

Nebula knew she was hit as she felt the F-8 shudder. She also knew that, as her aircraft carried a full load of fuel and ammunition, she stood a good chance of blocking the main taxiway. Nebula moved the throttle forward, cleared the revetments, then taxied into the ditch. The F-8 ended up nose down, which meant she could not safely eject, so she unstrapped, and jumped out. She ran, praying the White Fang weren’t anywhere near her. 

The F-8 exploded. The revetments saved the nearest aircraft from fragments and blast, and the White Fang were under cover. Nebula was in the open. The blast knocked her down, and flames ignited her hair. She struggled to her feet, screaming as she tried to run. Both sides watched in horror, and then one of the White Fang—the deer Faunus—dashed out of cover, grabbed her, pulled off his jerkin, and wrapped it around her head. He half-dragged her out of danger, back to the ditch Ilia’s team was sheltering in.

“What are you doing? She’s human!” one of the White Fang shouted.

“I’m not going to watch someone burn to death, human or not!” the Faunus screamed back. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

Pyrrha saw the black smoke rolling up from the hardstands. Their ersatz team had been reinforced by more SF men. Right now it was a stalemate. Neither side could move forward. Pyrrha, as the ranking person, was in command, but she had no experience in ground combat. Still, she had to do something. “Sergeant,” she addressed the man next to her, “take three men and go around to the right. Let’s see if we can flank them.”

“Pyrrha,” Jaune said, “four of them just went into the FOQ. Can we get over there?”

She looked to the sergeant, who shook his head. It would require a dash across open ground. Pyrrha felt sick. Nora was in there; so was Ruby Flight. They’d heard shots already, though someone in there had a weapon, since there were dead White Fang in front of the FOQ’s entrance. But they were on their own, and Pyrrha had to write them off. 

None of them had noticed that one White Fang soldier had worked his way through the bushes of the park, crawling close to the hedge. He pulled the pin out of a grenade, and threw it over the hedgerow. It landed between Pyrrha and Fox. “ _Grenade!”_ Fox shouted, and grabbed it. He flung it backwards behind a tree before it exploded. Most of the fragments were absorbed in the tree, but others went into the people behind the hedge. Fox fell back, hands clapped to his face, and one of the security police went down, clutching his leg. 

With a howl, the White Fang leapt over the hedge, knife raised. Ren jammed his pistol into his stomach and fired twice. The charge ended as soon as it had stopped as the White Fang fell back screaming behind the hedge. 

Fox was screaming as well. “ _Ah God! I can’t see! I can’t see!”_ One of the SF men called for a medic. 

With a ruthlessness he didn’t know he had, Jaune leaned over the hedge and shot the White Fang soldier in the head, ceasing his cries of agony. He dropped back as a bullet chopped into the hedge. “Pyrrha. You’re hit.”

“Um?” She looked down and saw a hole in the ankle of her boot. She could feel pain winding up her leg, but it was tolerable. “It’s all right. I’ll look at it later.” She stole a glance over the hedge. “We’ve got to break this somehow.”

_Building 111415 (Visiting Officer’s Quarters)_

_1445 Hours Local_

When Ironwood heard the explosions, he’d looked out of the window of the corner room he had. He’d taken his M1911 out of his suitcase, loaded it, and checked out the window again. There were four White Fang soldiers headed his way; if he went out any door of the VOQ, he’d be in the open, and very dead. There was no doubt they were coming for him, and anyone else in the building. As far as he knew, there wasn’t anyone else in the VOQ but him at the moment. 

Ironwood acted quickly. He went into the bathroom, opened the taps in the shower wide, and pulled the curtain closed, and shut the door behind him. He then opened the window and dived behind the bed.

He could hear the White Fang enter the building. They went from room to room, and occasionally he heard the _whump_ of grenades—flashbangs, he deduced by the noise. This group was professional. He heard only occasional shots; they were also husbanding their ammunition. 

Then he heard them outside his door. The door was kicked open. Ironwood stayed down, closing his eyes and opening his mouth. The concussion from the flashbang was still enough to drive the breath from his lungs and cause his hearing to be replaced by a ringing noise. He peeked over the top of the bed to see two White Fang soldiers; one kicked in the door to the bathroom. Ironwood propped himself over the bed, leveled the pistol, and fired. The bullets caught the second man through the door in the chest and threw him backwards. The first man turned and fired a burst with his carbine, tearing up the bed while Ironwood dropped down behind it, rolled to the left, and came up firing. This time his shots hit the White Fang in the shoulder, spinning him around into the bathroom. 

The third wasn’t going to go through the door. A grenade sailed into the room. Ironwood dashed forward, scooped it up, and threw it back into the hallway. It exploded, and he heard screams. He dropped behind the closet wall and waited, but the screams gradually died away to groans. Then he heard more shots—pistol fire this time, and the groans stopped. 

_Someone else?_ he wondered. So far the White Fang hadn’t been using pistols. “Anyone friendly out there?”

“Yes! Who’s there?” 

Ironwood thought he placed the accent. “ _’Iinaa sadiq!”_

There was a pause. “ _'Atamanaa dhlk bialtaakid.”_ Ironwood stepped halfway out of cover. Hopefully these White Fang didn’t speak Arabic.

A brown haired woman in casual clothes stepped into the entrance, a nine millimeter pistol in her hands. “General Ironwood?” she asked.

“Octavia Ember, correct?” He smiled. “Good to see a friendly face.”

She was about to step into the room, but he held up a hand. He took two cautious steps forward, and looked into the bathroom. The White Fang he’d wounded lay in a puddle of blood and water, against the toilet. He reached for the carbine with his good hand. Ironwood did not give him a chance and shot him twice. He then reached down, grabbed the carbine and extra magazines from the White Fang’s belt, and holstered the .45. 

Ember watched him and did the same with the corpse in the doorway. As Ironwood stepped out into the hallway and over the body of the first man he’d killed, the other two lay in a heap. Both had been badly wounded by the grenade; Ember had merely finished them off. He gathered up their weapons away, along with a flashbang and two grenades. “I’m sorry, General,” Ember said as he did so. “Sorry I wasn’t here sooner.”

“You’re here now,” Ironwood replied. “Glad they didn’t find you.” His room had been among the last the White Fang team had searched.

“Well, sir…I confess I was hiding under my bed.”

Ironwood, despite the situation, laughed. “Well, Lieutenant, let’s go join the battle, shall we?”

_Task Force Gagnon_

_Near Oakdale, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_1450 Hours Local_

Major Jacob Gagnon grinned as he looked into the rearview mirror. Coming up in the passing lane were three M1A1 Abrams, pieces of asphalt flying from the tracks; Interstate 94 was not really reinforced with 60-ton main battle tanks in mind. Captain Karelia Bighorn-Vlata was as good as her word—better, because she’d brought three tanks rather than two.

“Major? Problem.” Sergeant Fletcher, who had taken over driving duties on the deuce and a half truck that was carrying 2 Troop, pointed ahead as he began slowing down. _“Tabarnak!”_ Gagnon cursed. There were dozens of cars halted in front of them. As the truck stopped, Gagnon swung out of the passenger door, even as he heard the tanks rumble to a stop as well. He ran forward to a Wisconsin Highway Patrol car. The patrolman saw him, came to attention, and saluted, despite the fact that the WHP wasn’t exactly in Gagnon’s chain of command. “What’s going on?” Gagnon said, returning the salute.

“Are you guys headed for Beacon?” The WHP thumbed towards the base, only eight miles away. Smoke was rolling up in the distance. “Sorry, sir. We’ve got a massive traffic jam. Both lanes. We’ve stopped traffic until we figure out what the hell is going on. I can reroute you around it—Highway 12 is still clear.”

“Major Gagnon!” Bighorn-Vlata was waving for his attention. He crossed over to where the tank was parked, the main gun distressingly close to another WHP patrol car; the patrolmen were looking nervously at the tank. “We have to get around this shit. I’m going to take my tanks across country, break through to the north.”

“We’ll head for the main gate. Get moving, then!” He looked at the tanks. Gagnon wished he could load some of his men onto them, but the gas turbine of the Abrams put out a lot of heat; it would not be like in World War II, where they could ride into combat on the rear deck of the tank. “Fletcher! Boucher! Wilburn! Get aboard the tanks! Take up the loader position!” It was better than nothing. “Take the Stinger!” Gagnon looked up, and saw a F-5 and something with forward swept wings orbiting above them. 

“We’ve only got one shot for the Stinger!” Private Wilburn yelled back.

“Those bastards don’t know that! Move your ass!” He nodded to Bighorn-Vlata, who dropped back down into her commander’s position, her hands on the .50 caliber machine gun. That could do a great deal of damage as well. As his men pulled themselves onto the tanks, Gagnon turned to the patrolman. “Lead on.” 

Above them, Adam dipped a wing and saw the tanks on the road, then checked the round counter in the HUD for his cannon. He didn’t have much left, and he didn’t want to be flying around with empty guns. He still had his missiles, but few fighter pilots only wanted to be dependent on that. He toggled his radio switch. “Fang Six, this is Adam,” he sent out.

“Fang Six.” It was not Sienna, but her radioman; Adam could hear automatic weapons fire in the background. 

“Tell Sienna to move her ass. You’ve got three tanks about eight miles away, and Roman and I don’t have a thing to stop them.”

_Building 91213 (Female Officers’ Quarters)_

_1455 Local_

“Tanks?” Sienna asked her radioman. “Is he sure?” Her radioman raised the mouthpiece of the radio to his mouth, but Sienna motioned for the radio. “Adam, Fang Six Actual. Are you sure about the tanks?”

“Fang Six, I am looking down at three M1 Abrams main battle tanks, which are now leaving the highway and going across the field. At the speed they’re progressing, you’re going to have them in your laps in about ten minutes or less.”

“Strafe them!” Sienna ordered.

“Negative. Our twenty millimeters won’t get through that armor, and those tanks have machine guns. I am not getting down into their kill zone, and neither is Roman if he has any sense.”

Sienna looked around her. She’d already taken heavy casualties, and though Ilia’s teams still had their Javelins, she didn’t like her chances against tanks. There was an explosion behind her, from the dispersal. They’d already done quite a bit of damage, and with any luck, they could do more before they finally had to disperse into the woods and exfiltrate the base. The plan had never been to take Beacon in any case, but to delay their reaction. She hoped Cinder had succeeded in her part of the plan, at least.

“Adam, Fang Six. Maintain position. We’ll fall back to Yuma’s team and keep the runway closed. What’s your state?”

“I’ve got about another thirty minutes before bingo.” 

“Understood. Fang Six out.” Sienna handed back the mike to the radioman. Adam had around another thirty minutes of fuel before he had to leave the area. Neo and Roman would have more. The plan was still working, just not as well as she’d like. “Give the order to fall back to Yuma,” she told the radioman. Then she reached into her pocket, pulled out a whistle, and gave three blasts on it. 

Ilia watched as the F-16 in the first revetment burned, then exploded again as one of the missiles touched off. She could delay no longer.

“Team Bravo from Fang Six.” Ilia reached up and touched the headset pickup. “Fall back to rally point. Repeat, fall back to rally point. Be advised, armor coming from the north.”

“Team Bravo, acknowledged,” she radioed back. Ilia reached out and grabbed the shoulder of the trooper with the Javelin on her shoulder, a burly cougar Faunus. “Hold your fire. We’ve got tanks headed for us. We need to hold on to what we’ve got left.”

“But the enemy aircraft—“ she began to protest.

“Let the others handle them!” Ilia snapped. “Those six Javelin rounds are all we have against tanks! Unless you want to try taking them on hand to hand!” The Faunus nodded and hefted the Javelin. Ilia ordered her team to fall back. The deer Faunus knelt over the female pilot. “Is she still alive?” Ilia asked.

“Yeah. Pretty badly burned on her head and neck. She passed out, thank God.” He shook his head. “I know she’s a human, but…”

“We don’t have to be monsters, Royce. Let’s go.” Ilia’s team began to fall back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incidentally, Ironwood and Octavia Ember's exchange roughly translates to "I'm a friend" and "I sure hope so" in Arabic, at least according to Google Translate.


	80. A View to a Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the pilots try to fight their way to their aircraft, with Roman, Neo and Adam waiting in the sky above, the real threat comes from within. Cinder makes her move against Amber, and after she's done with the Fall Maiden, she's going after Goodwitch and Ozpin.

_Building 13016 (Base Hospital)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_14 May 2001_

_1430 Hours Local_

Cinder Fall walked through the hospital. It was chaos. The staff was preparing operating rooms and triage rooms for combat casualties. Other staff were blocking some of the exits, while security police secured the entrance, expecting that the White Fang would attack the hospital as well. Medical facilities were off-limits under every convention of war ever signed, but Sienna Khan didn’t much care for treaties. 

No one paid her any mind. Cinder walked to Dr. Thomas’ office, the chief medical officer of the base, and one of the few she knew had access to Amber Tardor. She wondered if she would have to hunt him down, but he was in his office, typing away on his computer, standing over his desk. “Dr. Thomas?” Cinder asked.

Thomas looked up. “Major Fall?” He had not heard about the arrest order on her. “I’m sorry to sound like an asshole, Major, but we’re pretty busy here. The other pilots are trapped in the dorms, last I heard.”

“Yes, I heard that as well.” Cinder was hoping the pilots would get massacred in their dorms; it would make her job much easier. “Doctor, I need to see you, immediately.”

“Major, unless you have arterial bleeding, I’m just too busy at the moment.”

“I insist, Doctor.” He looked up. Cinder was holding a silenced pistol. It was aimed at his chest, and hidden from the outside by her body. “Don’t yell for help. I’d much rather keep you alive, Doctor, but if I have to, I’ll chop off the fingers I need.”

“What are you talking about?” Thomas asked.

“Take me to Amber Tardor. Now.”

“Why?”

Cinder glared at him. “Doctor, you’re wasting time. Either take me to Amber, or prepare to end up on one of your own operating tables.” She motioned with her head towards the door. 

Thomas thought about rushing her. There was a letter opener on the desk. He glanced at it, then at the pistol. Her grip on it was steady, and her eyes were pitiless. Thomas sighed and moved past her, and she fell in behind, putting the pistol into her coat pocket. Someone who was looking would notice the weapon, but Cinder was betting no one would notice. 

She was right. They began bringing in the first casualties. Thomas looked back at her, concern on his face, but she gave a minute shake of her head. The doctor gave an excuse to one of the nurses, saying he would be in the OR in a moment, and led Cinder into the deserted wing of the hospital. It was much quieter here, though the hospital shook with an explosion. Thomas once more looked at her, but Cinder just smiled. “Don’t worry, Doctor. I’ll let you go in a minute.”

“What are you going to do with Amber?” he asked.

“Just talk to her.” 

Thomas opened the door to the empty room, and moved towards the robes, gloves and boots. “No need for that,” Cinder said. “You won’t be going to Amber.” 

“You need to put those on,” Thomas told her. “Amber’s…not well. Any infection could kill her.”

Cinder grabbed the protective gear, but draped it over her arm. She pulled the pistol out and motioned towards the door. Thomas opened the next door, then crossed to the closet door and ran his hands over the fingerprint scanner. The door clicked open, and Thomas entered the closet. He reached under his smock and pulled out his badge, then swiped it through the reader. “The elevator will take you down to her. Please get covered up before you do.”

“Of course, Doctor. Thank you. You should go help your patients. I imagine you’ll have casualties. I’ll ask you not to call security? They’re going to be quite busy with the White Fang.” She thumbed behind her. “Get going.”

Thomas nodded, and walked towards the door. As he opened it, Cinder raised the pistol and shot him through the back of the head. She kicked the door shut, and stripped the doctor of his smock, avoiding as much of the gore as she could. Cinder then threw the protective gear over the body, entered the closet, and found the buttons to take her down. 

_Base Headquarters_

_1440 Hours Local_

Ozpin looked out over the flightline. He could see people moving there, wearing the jerkins of the White Fang, and he could do nothing. He’d never felt so helpless in his life—with one exception. There was nothing he could do: the battle was in the hands of his security police, Ironwood’s troops, and the pilots. Glynda was pacing, angry; he knew that some of that anger was aimed at him. Her F-22 was sitting on the transient tarmac, but with the White Fang between her and the Raptor, it might as well have been on the moon. He knew she wanted him to let her go, wanted him to have let her go ten minutes ago, though likely the White Fang would have killed her. 

The phone rang. Ozpin instantly picked it up. “Ozpin.”

“Sir, this is the tower—“

“Are you all right?”

“So far, so good, sir. They haven’t come after us, at least not yet.” Ozpin breathed a sigh of relief about that. The tower was isolated now, on the opposite side of the runways from base headquarters, but from his office, he could see no White Fang troops there. However, it wouldn’t take much to destroy the tower, which would cripple Beacon’s ability to coordinate its aircraft. “But sir, we got bigger problems than the White Fang.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, sir. Regency is tracking GRIMM, Captain—and they’re tracking something huge. It’s about five hundred feet long, four hundred wide, according to Crow 13.” _Qrow,_ Ozpin thought. Qrow Branwen might be prone to drinking, but he was not prone to exaggeration. “He’s codenamed it a Wyvern. It’s nothing like we’ve ever seen. Regency vectored Funky Two towards it, and Cardinal Lead has managed to lose his bandit and is headed that way as well. Besides the Wyvern, we’re also tracking at least two dozen smaller GRIMM, probably Beowolves and Ursai.”

Ozpin sat down in his chair, his grip tightening on the phone. “Very well,” he said after a few moments. “If we can get the pilots to their aircraft, we’ll get them in the air. What about the enemy aircraft?”

“So far we’ve identified only two, sir. Cardinal reports being engaged by a red F-22, while we’ve been buzzed by that forward-swept wing aircraft. No others so far, but the F-22 shot down Cardinal Two, and—“

“And Funky Lead got shot down by the other aircraft.” Ozpin had seen that, though at least Flynt Coal had gotten out. 

“Yes, sir. What would you like us to do, sir?” the senior controller asked. There was just the hint of panic in his voice.

“Hold your position, and block the entrance to the tower. We’ll be through to you as soon as possible. Keep me in the loop. Ozpin out.” He hung up the phone.

“What’s going on?” Glynda asked.

“It’s as we feared. This is a coordinated attack. There’s GRIMM coming—the biggest one I’ve ever heard of.”

“How did it get through—“ Glynda went pale. “The Cascadia Barrier. When that destroyer was sunk, it left a gap. And without the SAM barrier…”

“There’s not much we have that can stop it. Especially if we can’t get the pilots to their planes.” Ozpin stared at the phone. He put his hand on it, hesitated, and looked at Glynda. “I think we have to use the Maiden, Glynda.”

“If we can’t get to the aircraft…” she began.

“This Wyvern could destroy Beacon. Or worse, bypass us and head for Chicago.” He picked up the phone and stabbed the buttons. He waited a moment, then spoke into the receiver. “This is Captain Ozpin at Beacon. This is a Code Azrael. I need to speak with the President.”

_Base Hospital_

_1445 Hours Local_

Cinder walked into Amber’s room. Here, it was very quiet other than the beeping and whirring of machines. She got close to the plastic, and even Cinder was taken aback at the damaged body of Amber—and she had inflicted most of that damage herself when she’d shot Amber down. Then she steeled herself: she couldn’t afford to show pity. Cinder reached under the smock, into her jacket, and withdrew a small case. Opening it, she pulled out a syringe. _Hope I remember how to use this. Merlot only had a chance to show me once._ She began hooking up the syringe to Amber’s IV. 

“Hey there.” Cinder nearly jumped at the voice. Amber was stirring weakly in her bed. “You…must be new.”

“Y-Yes,” Cinder said, recovering. “I’m Doctor Autumn.” It wasn’t exactly the best cover name, but the first thing that came to mind.

“Doctor Autumn,” Amber breathed. “Funny…my last name…means something like…something like that.” She motioned with her remaining arm. “What’s that?”

“It’s not going to make you better,” Cinder admitted, “but it is going to make you feel pretty good. It’s a new kind of painkiller.” In actuality, it was something called SP-117, a derivative of, and far more potent than sodium thiopental, the so-called truth serum. Cinder wasn’t entirely lying: SP-117 was going to make Amber very happy. It would also make her very talkative.

Amber’s eyes widened as the drug hit her. “Oh. Oh, _wow._ ” She smiled. “Oh, hell yes. That’s…that’s good shit.”

Cinder nodded. “I thought you’d like that.” She reached through the plastic with one of the gloves, and took Amber’s hand. “Are you my friend, Amber?”

Amber giggled, high-pitched and happy. “Right now…I’m _everyone’s_ friend.” She squirmed in the bed. “Man. Wooo-eee!”

Cinder patted her hand and smiled.

_Building 91213 (Female Officers’ Quarters)_

_1500 Local_

There had been silence below for at least five minutes. Ruby Flight still had their captured carbines leveled at the doorway to the stairs. “One of us should go check,” Weiss whispered, not really sure why she was whispering. It seemed like the thing to do.

“I’ll go.” Yang got to her feet, crept forward, and eased open the door. She heard someone coming in through the front. “Hello!” a voice called. It sounded familiar, but in the acoustics of the hallway, Yang wasn’t sure. “Anyone here?”

Yang put her butt against the door to keep it open, and raised the M4. “Who goes there?”

“Yang? It’s Ren!”

Nora, who had armed herself with another fire extinguisher, ran forward to join Yang. “Ren?”

“Nora? Are you okay? I’m coming up!”

“Hold your ass!” Yang yelled. “How do we know it’s you, Ren?” Nora looked at Yang like the latter had lost her mind.

“I’m Lie Ren, Captain, Chinese Unified Air Force, serial number 311-549-3318.”

“You could’ve gotten that off a dogtag, you White Fang motherfu—“

“Ren!” Nora called out. “What shape is the birthmark on my butt?”

There was silence. “You don’t have a birthmark on your butt.”

Nora eased down Yang’s weapon. “It’s Ren.” 

Yang brought up the barrel anyway as they heard footsteps on the stairs. A hand came out and waved, then Ren stepped into view. Yang relaxed. “It’s Ren, guys!” she yelled back at the others. “Sure is good to see you.”

Nora took the stairs three at a time and smothered her lover in a hug. Jaune came up the stairs next. “Glad to see you,” he said to Yang.

Yang came down the stairs, hugged Jaune, and kissed him on the cheek. “Same same. What happened to the White Fang?”

“They’re apparently pulling out. Ironwood took command of the Security Forces, and they’re trailing them.” He pried Yang off of him. “Anybody hurt?”

“One of the cops got hit. Nothing too bad. Any of our people?”

Jaune looked grim, especially as Ruby Flight and Velvet came into sight. “Velvet, Fox got hurt bad. Grenade went off right as he threw it. He saved us, but…he’s blinded.” Velvet’s hands went to her mouth. “Pyrrha got hit; just a nick. There’s been some explosions on the flightline, and someone said they saw Flynt Coal get shot down. There’s at least one White Fang fighter up there, maybe two.”

Blake walked down the stairs. “Can we get to the planes?”

“There’s a hell of a fire going in the dispersal. No one’s tried yet.”

“Then we will.” Blake turned to the rest of them. “Anyone who isn’t armed, grab some hardware! We’re going to make a run to the aircraft! We’ve got to get them in the air before the fire spreads, or more White Fang fighters show up!” No one asked why Blake was suddenly in command, but they began to move down the stairs as well. Ruby and Yang went back and helped the wounded air policeman to his feet. Blake waited until they came back. Yang stared at her friend for a moment. “You okay?” she asked softly.

“No,” Blake snapped back, and headed for the door, stepping over White Fang corpses as she did so. Yang did not at all like what she saw in the Faunus’ yellow eyes.

They moved out onto the sidewalk. There were scattered shots, but nowhere near the volume of fire they heard before. Carefully, the pilots moved forward, joined by Octavia Ember and a hobbling Pyrrha. Yang turned the wounded over to a medic, then got Pyrrha’s arm around her. They reached the end of the sidewalk, crossed the street, and came to the fence that separated the base from the transient tarmac. They could see some of the security forces moving forward in short sprints, occasionally firing into the treeline. 

Blake took point, and moved forward to the door of the equipment building. She tried the doorknob; it was open. She eased the door open, one hand on the knob and another on the carbine. The room seemed deserted, but everything was in place: helmets were in their bags, hanging from their hooks, along with flight suits, G-suits, and survival vests. Blake listened with four ears, then crept forward. 

Something moved behind one of the lockers. She raised the carbine. “Who goes there?” There was no answer. “You have three seconds before I open fire.”

Slowly, a Faunus came into view—a male with wolf ears, probably no older than sixteen. He was wearing a White Fang vest. He held his hands up. “Please…don’t shoot,” he pleaded.

Blake was tempted to shoot anyway; her finger tightened on the trigger. Then she thought better of it. “Strip,” she ordered. The Faunus hesitated. “Strip!” she shouted. “Naked! Now!”

The Faunus nodded vigorously and did exactly as he was told, just as Yang, Pyrrha and Ruby walked in. Yang blinked. “Uh, Blake?”

“On the floor!” Blake ordered. Now nude, he dropped to the floor and put his hands over his head. “Check his clothes.” Ruby nodded and went forward. So did Blake, keeping the M4 trained on the White Fang soldier’s head. “You move, and I will blow your fucking head off. Do you have any grenades in those clothes? Explosives? Suicide vest?”

“No!” the Faunus screamed. “I got separated from the rest! Then all the shooting…I was scared, I didn’t know what to do…”

Ruby stepped on the discarded clothes. “All clear, Blake. His rifle’s over here.” She reached forward and carefully picked up an AK-47. 

Blake hauled the Faunus to his feet and shoved him towards Octavia. “Get him out of here.”

“He’s naked,” Yang said.

“No shit. I don’t care.” She turned to Octavia. “Turn him over to the security guys. He probably knows a lot about the Fang and their numbers. Don’t let the little bastard cover himself.” Octavia nodded and shoved the Faunus out the door.

Pyrrha realized she was the senior officer in the room, and though Blake was doing well enough, there was something about her demeanor that was frightening. “Everyone, get your gear on. I’ll watch the door. Hurry—leave your survival vests. Flight suits and G-suits only.”

Quickly, weapons were set down and regular clothes were thrown aside, as pilots pulled on flight suits and G-suits. Helmets were grabbed off the shelf. Pyrrha, already in her flight suit, watched the door. Her ankle throbbed, but the grenade fragment had been only a flesh wound. She saw Velvet come in, strip down to her underwear, and pull on her flight suit. “Velvet. Is Fox all right?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I’ll check on him later.”

“Velvet,” Ruby said gently. “You’re a WSO. Your Tornado got shot down—“

“No fucking shit!” Velvet shouted back. “I’ve already started training to transition into the front seat as soon as we got back home. I know enough to fly!”

“But there’s no spare—“

“Ruth’s Jaguar.” Velvet speared Ruby with a furious look. “I’m going. You want to stop me, you’ll have to shoot me.”

“Sky down, big chief,” Yang said. “You’re gonna fly.” She looked around the room, taking stock. All of Ruby Flight was present—Ruby, herself, Blake, Weiss. Juniper as well: Nora, Ren, Pyrrha and Jaune. Octavia had returned, the only member of Indigo Flight present, though the rest should be at the dispersal. Coco, Yatsuhatchi, and Velvet rounded out Coffee. Sun Flight was all there: Sun, Neptune, Sage, Scarlet. 16 pilots, plus Auburn and Indigo with the aircraft. Yang grinned. That was more than enough to kick the hell out of whoever was up there.

Blake waved to get everyone’s attention. “Listen! The bread trucks are gone, so we’re going to have to make a run for it. Everyone runs, nobody stops. Someone gets hit, you have to leave them. We get to the aircraft at all costs. Understand? _Nobody stops.”_

They all nodded. Blake didn’t want to think about it: it was half a mile to the dispersal, over open ground. If there were any White Fang around, they’d be sitting ducks. And Adam was still up there, though she doubted that he would strafe them; he had an odd sort of honor about such things.

They all gathered close to the door. “Pyrrha,” Jaune said. “Your ankle—“

“I won’t have far to run. My F-16 is parked right out the door, remember? As long as the White Fang didn’t sabotage it.” She smiled at him. “Good luck. _Je t’aime.”_ She wished she could kiss him, but this wasn’t the place for it.

“ _Se agapo,”_ he replied. Jaune squeezed her hand, unseen in the press of pilots.

“Let’s do it,” Ruby said impatiently.

“Go,” Blake ordered.

Adam Taurus swept over Beacon. He was bored. No one else was trying to take off. He checked his fuel gauge. 

“Well, well,” he heard Roman’s voice. The F-5 was turning as well over the base. “Looks like a whole bunch of people running across the tarmac. I bet those are pilots.” He leveled off, preparing to roll in. “I almost feel sorry for them.”

“Hold your fire,” Adam snapped. “Let them get to their aircraft, if they can.” He leveled off as well, and touched his speedbrakes, falling back behind Roman. “You peel off, I’ll shoot _you_ down. Let them get in the air. Fighter pilots shouldn’t kill each other on the ground like common footsloggers.”

“Well, aren’t we the honorable one,” Roman growled back, but held his course. 

“Hello, my lover! Seven o’clock low.” Roman turned at Neo’s voice, and grinned as he saw the red F-22 skimming over the trees to the north. Then he realized she was heading for the tanks.

_Task Force Karelia_

_Between I-94 and Joint Base Beacon_

_1510 Local_

“So…this…is…why…you…didn’t…want…anyone…on top!” Sean Fletcher struggled out, trying not to be bounced out of the tank. The three Abrams were heading across a farmer’s field towards the north fence, and Captain Karelia Bighorn-Vlata’s driver seemed bent on hitting every chuckhole and ditch along the way—without slowing down. He held onto the gunner’s M240 with one hand and the Stinger with the other, afraid it would bounce right off the tank.

“Fun, eh?” The captain grinned madly at him. Fletcher groaned; she was enjoying this. Then he looked past her, and saw a glint of sunlight off canopy. “Aircraft west!” He pointed. Her head swiveled in that direction, and she slewed the .50 caliber machine gun to bear. Before she had a chance to radio a warning, the other tanks had already spotted the F-22 coming in, and opened fire with their machine guns. Karelia pulled the triggers and held on as the heavy machine gun bucked in her hands.

“Slow this fucker down!” Fletcher yelled. He grabbed the Stinger, braced himself, and raised it to his shoulder. The driver slowed down a little, but not much. Karelia saw what he was doing and dropped back down into the turret. Fletcher fired, and the missile went wide. The F-22 broke off its attack and climbed nonetheless.

Karelia climbed back up onto the .50. “I fucking hate airplanes.”

_Transient Aircraft Ramp_

_1510 Local_

The pilots charged out of the door. No one yelled or cheered, saving their breath for the run. The parked C-130 gave them a little cover. Pyrrha let go of Jaune’s hand and ran for her F-16, which looked intact. 

Yang saw Ciel Soileil’s body lying next to her F-15, the canopy blown off and smoking. “Fucking bastards,” she said under her breath.

Then they were in the open, and the pilots broke into a sprint. Everyone waited for the shots to come, but they were halfway across before one did. The crack resounded across the tarmac, and Scarlet screamed as he went down, tumbling to a halt. Despite Blake’s advice, Sun slid to a halt, throwing himself between whoever fired and his flightmate. 

So did Ruby. She dropped prone, turned towards the treeline in the distance, and saw something move. She sighted down the barrel, through the sight, and fired twice. A second later, a White Fang soldier fell out of a tree and landed motionless in the grass. 

“Holy shit!” Sun exclaimed. Ruby watched the treeline as Sun grabbed Scarlet, levered him onto his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and ran the rest of the distance. Ruby waited until he was past, then took off running herself. No other shots came.

The pilots dashed past the F-8, which was still burning, but Nebula’s last act before abandoning it had kept it from blocking the taxiway or the fire from getting close to the revetments. In the first revetment, Arslan’s F-16 was a smoldering wreck, surrounded by mechanics with fire extinguishers; the berm that surrounded the revetments protected them from the White Fang. 

Vogelmord ran out to them, meeting Yang and Blake first. “Who’s with you?”

“We got Ruby, Juniper, Sun, most of Coffee, and Octavia from Indigo,” Yang puffed out. “Are the aircraft ready?”

“Yeah, if you can get off the ground.” Vogelmord pointed upwards. “There’s two of the bastards. One of them strolled right in here and took Lieutenant Ember’s F-5 right out from under us. We fell for it, Captain. Thought he was one of ours. I think it was that Roman Torchwick asshole. Anyway, the one with the forward swept wings got Flynt Coal as he was taking off. We saw a ‘chute, so maybe he got out okay. I think Lieutenant Katt and Lieutenant Kobalt got out. They headed west for some reason.”

“We’ll have to chance it,” said Blake. “Pyrrha got to her F-16 all right—as long as the White Fang didn’t screw with it.” Sun carried Scarlet into the nearest revetment, which held Bolin Hori’s F-16. Blood was running from Scarlet’s left leg. One of the mechanics rushed over, pulled off his belt, and tied it above the wound as a tourniquet, as two others ran towards them with first aid kits. Blake ran to Sun and bent down next to Scarlet. “How bad?”

“Hit the leg. I think it’s broken.” Scarlet sucked in his breath as the mechanic tied the tourniquet tight. “Shit! Fuck!”

“We’ve got two spare aircraft, then,” Vogelmord said. “Apologies to Lieutenant David, but he’s not flying anything now. His Lavi and Lionheart’s Jag.”

“Velvet’s taking the Jag,” Yang said. “She’ll probably rip someone’s throat out with her sharp, pointy teeth if someone tries to take it away from her. We need to figure out who’ll take the Lavi.” Octavia and Arslan, who had run up to the pilots, looked at each other. Arslan chose rock; Octavia chose paper; Arslan spit a vile Turkish curse. “Sorry,” Octavia said. To Scarlet, she smiled. “I’ll take care of it for you, my friend.”

“Allah go with you,” Scarlet grinned, then fought back a yell as pain washed through him, the ground crew dressing the wound. 

“A Jordanian flying an Israeli airplane.” Sun laughed, despite it all.

Blake raised her hands for everyone’s attention. “All right! Pilots, man your planes! We go out by the numbers—Bolin and Gwen, that’s you! Don’t bother waiting for instructions—we don’t even know if the tower crew is still alive! Combat departures! Go!”

They all began running for their aircraft. Yang stopped Ruby as she handed off her M4 to one of the ground crew. “You okay, sis?”

Ruby nodded. It had occurred to her that she’d killed another living being today, three times at least, but she’d have to worry about that later. There wasn’t time now. “I’m good.”

“Let’s go kick some ass!” Yang pulled on her helmet, hugged her sister, and ran for _Ember Celica._

_Base Hospital_

_1515 Local_

Cinder took out a knife and slid the plastic curtain open, as Amber continued to babble happily. It had taken a bit, but Cinder now had the activation code for the Fall Maiden. She took the wristband off Amber’s hands. “I’m taking this to Ozpin, okay?”

“Um…no, I need…to keep that,” Amber protested, but she was too weak and too much under the effect of the drug to do more than paw at Cinder’s hands. “That’s mine, dammit,” she said, then dissolved into giggles again.

Cinder strapped on the wristband, got out from under the plastic, and picked up the pistol from where she’d set it on a chair. She kept her back to Amber, and was about to turn and shoot her, when she hesitated. Then she set the pistol down again. “Amber. Where do they keep your morphine?”

“Over there somewhere,” Amber laughed. “Why? You gonna…shoot up?”

Cinder found the morphine and filled three syringes with a fatal overdose. Then she went back past the plastic curtain and injected all three into Amber’s arm. She brushed a strand of hair from the other woman’s face. “You…gonna kiss me?” Amber snorted. “Don’t like…girls!”

Cinder could not help but smile. “Goodbye, Amber.” By the time she picked up the pistol, tossed aside the smock, and reached the elevator, Amber had already subsided into a sleep from which she would never awaken.

_Base Headquarters_

_1520 Local_

“Yes, Mr. President. At this point I do not know if I can get aircraft in the air, and the Barrier is no longer operational; if we reactivate it, it may attack everything that flies. If I can, then there’s a possibility we can shoot this Wyvern down, but with its approximate size, I see no other choice at the moment.” Ozpin paused, waiting for President Shawcross to finish. “That is my recommendation. I realize I am jumping the chain of command, but time is short. If we can’t stop the GRIMM, they will then attack Chicago. Ellsworth and Sioux Falls are scrambling their fighters, but they may not be enough and they may be too late.” He paused again. “Yes, I know, Mr. President. But I see no other choice. If you wish to relieve me of command after all this is over, I will understand.” Involuntarily, Ozpin smiled. “I might even help you.” Another pause. “Thank you, Mr. President. I will activate my code now. Would you like me to stay on the line? Very well, sir. Yes, sir. God help us all.” Ozpin hung up, and looked at Glynda, taking a deep breath. He felt cold, all of a sudden, and very old. “Maiden use authorized.”

“Mother of God,” Glynda breathed. 

Ozpin turned to his terminal. He opened a folder marked _Committee Correspondence,_ which contained two hundred extremely boring minutes of long-forgotten meetings, and hidden among them, the activation program for the Fall Maiden. He opened that file, and began typing. The phone rang, and he picked it up while continuing to type. “Ozpin.” He stopped typing. “Excellent. Thank you. That’s something at least.” He put down the phone. “The tarmac is clear; the White Fang have fallen back to the forest south of the runway. The pilots made it to their planes.”

“Then we might be able to shoot this thing down without using the Maiden,” Glynda said.

“Possibly. I’m going to activate it anyway, then go over and get Amber to do the same. We haven’t committed yet, but it will be nice to have the Maiden—just in case.” He waved her towards the door. “Go, Glynda, and don’t forget the world was made in seven days. I can grant you anything, except time.”

Glynda smiled wanly at the quote; it was Napoleon, who along with Winston Churchill Ozpin liked to quote now and then. “We’ll kill this thing,” she said, and ran out the door. Ozpin went back to his typing.

Glynda ran for all she was worth towards the stairwell. The door opened just as she reached it. Standing in front of her was Cinder Fall. The two women stared at each other for a moment, then Cinder raised the pistol and shot Glynda twice in the stomach. Glynda gasped with the pain and collapsed, gripping her middle as Cinder stepped over her and walked down the hall. She tried to shout a warning, but the pain stole her breath.

Ozpin’s door was still open, and Cinder strode in. “Hello, Captain Ozpin.” She raised the pistol.

“Cinder Fall,” he said, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. “If that is your real name.”

Cinder kicked the door shut. “Strangely enough, it is. Colonel Goodwitch won’t be joining us, on account of dying.” She shook her head. “She was right about you, you know—Salem, that is. She knew that, if you were pressed, you’d activate the Fall Maiden.” She motioned at the computer. 

“If you’re trying to take control of it, it won’t work,” Ozpin said. “You need all three codes.” He saw the wristband. “What happened to Amber?”

“What was going to happen to her the moment she accepted the task of controlling the Fall Maiden,” Cinder said. “Don’t worry; she didn’t suffer. Certainly no more than you already made her suffer. As for the Maiden itself…” Cinder shrugged. “Who said anything about taking control of it? Salem doesn’t want that, Ozpin. She doesn’t need to control the Maidens. She only needs to ensure they can never be used.” He stared at her. “She wanted me to ask you a question, Ozpin.”

“Which is?” There was a pistol in his desk. He wondered if he’d be fast enough to get to it.

“How does it feel to know that you’ve started _another_ world war?” Then Cinder raised the pistol and shot Ozpin. Blood sprayed on the wall from his head and he fell off his chair to the floor. Cinder then shot the computer twice. As it sparked and died, she reloaded the pistol and left the office.

“You…” Glynda gritted her teeth against the pain. 

“Keep pressure on it,” Cinder said conversationally as she walked past. “And you might live. Unlike poor old Amber and dear old Ozpin.” 

“You’ll never escape,” Glynda snarled.

“Oh, yes I will.” Cinder winked at her. “Is your F-22 parked at the transient ramp, Colonel?” She stepped over her again and went down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Pyrrha and Jaune say to each other is "I love you" in French and Greek, respectively. 
> 
> SP-117 is a real drug, incidentally. Needless to say, it's been banned by the Geneva Convention...not that Cinder cares.


	81. Separate Ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the fighter pilots of Beacon try to get in the air, they have to deal with White Fang on the ground, and Adam, Neo and Roman in the air. Help is coming, but it's stuck in traffic. 
> 
> And the GRIMM are still approaching...

_Squadron Dispersal Area A_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_14 May 2001_

_1520 Local_

“Beacon Tower, Juniper Lead,” Pyrrha radioed. “We’re scrambling. How’s it look?” It wasn’t exactly radio protocol, but there was no time for that. As the senior officer until Goodwitch showed up—assuming she ever did, and wasn’t dead somewhere—Pyrrha knew she had to take command.

“Juniper, Beacon. Runways are clear but there are White Fang in the woods. You may get some small arms fire when you take off. Wind is out of the southwest at five miles an hour, ceiling is scattered to broken, visibility ten miles. Be advised, there is a large amount of GRIMM approaching from the west, bearing 170, range 100—raid count is now 24, including one very large GRIMM, codenamed Wyvern. Funky Two, Cardinal Lead and Crow 13 are engaged. Also be advised of three bandits overhead—one F-5, one F-22, and one possible armed X-29.”

_Now tell me the bad news,_ Pyrrha thought balefully. “Roger that, Beacon. Stand by.” She switched frequencies to the squadron net. “All Beacon aircraft, this is Pyrrha. I’m taking over as force commander.” She relayed the news about the GRIMM and the White Fang. “We won’t worry about flight assignments for now. Whoever is first out goes up. Engage the fighters first, and then we’ll worry about the GRIMM.” She eased the throttle forward, checking behind her to make sure that she was clear of the C-130. There was no one to guide her; she’d already had to pull her own chocks. She turned the F-16 around. “I’ll hold here and take off last. Who is first out?”

“This is Gwen. Out first.” Pyrrha looked across the taxiway and saw Gwen Darcy’s Typhoon come out of its revetment.

“Pyrrha, Bolin. Out second.” The Turkish F-16 followed Gwen out.

“Roger. Beacon Tower, Pyrrha, are you listening?”

“Roger that, Pyrrha. Bolin and Gwen, you are cleared for immediate takeoff. Recommend combat departure.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Bolin replied. Pyrrha watched the Typhoon and the F-16 taxi into place at the end of both runways. She then looked up. The three ship formation of White Fang fighters were orbiting to the west.

Adam dipped his right wing and saw the two aircraft turn onto Beacon’s parallel runways. “Neo, Adam,” he radioed. “Hold position. Don’t attack until they’re in the air. We don’t want them blocking the runways if they go down.”

“Why not?” Neo asked.

“Don’t you want kills, Neo? Strafing doesn’t count.” Neo said nothing more, but held formation. He was counting on her bloodthirsty attitude. If the runways were blocked, Blake wasn’t going to get in the air. “As soon as they clear the trees, nail them.” 

“Bolin, Gwen, go!” Pyrrha ordered. The Typhoon and the F-16 lit their afterburners and roared down the runway. As both lifted into the air, they climbed hard, popping flares. Pyrrha saw no tracers come out of the woods, but then two smoke trails lofted out. “Bolin, Gwen, SAM! SAM! Break now!”

Gwen rolled, more flares dropping from her aircraft; the Stinger aimed at her chased a flare and exploded. The other tracked on Bolin, who was a fraction too slow, and detonated just behind his tailpipe. The F-16 somersaulted, went into the trees and exploded. 

Gwen started her climb again to clear any further Stingers. Pyrrha saw the red F-22 suddenly roar past. “Gwen, break right, Raptor behind you!” she shouted. She watched in horror as the Typhoon made a hard break, but Gwen was out of energy; she’d lost too much speed dodging the Stinger. The F-22 easily compensated, and even at this distance, Pyrrha could see sparks fly from the narrow fuselage of the Typhoon, followed by smoke and flame as the Raptor pilot marched cannon shells down the length of the aircraft. The Typhoon stalled and began to roll over: Gwen ejected, but she was too low, and seat and pilot disappeared into the woods. There was another explosion.

Pyrrha flooded the air with Greek curses and banged a hand against the side of the cockpit. They were trapped. 

_Highway 12, Between Oakdale and Camp Douglas_

_Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_1525 Local_

“Sir,” Corporal Lance Ballew asked, “what exactly does _tabarnak_ mean? I mean, I get it’s a Quebecois curse, but it doesn’t really seem that nasty. I mean, I know some Cajun curses that are a lot worse…”

“You’re going to hear worse ones in a minute,” Major Jacob Gagnon growled. He looked at the map again for the third time in as many minutes. It had been the Wisconsin Highway Patrol’s idea to use the frontage road—Highway 12—to reach the main gate and bypass the traffic snarl on the interstate. They hadn’t counted on the frontage road being in even worse condition, as people in the surrounding towns fled the area, and returning base personnel tried to get back in. They had been staring at the sign proclaiming that they were entering Juneau County for the past five minutes without moving. It was three miles to the front gate: his men could easily make the run, but it would take time. Nor could they go offroad, not with the ditches, woods, and scattered buildings on either side of the road. 

There was a knock on the side of the door. Gagnon looked out to see a rather incongrous sight: a skinny man with a shock of green hair, wearing a white shirt that wasn’t tucked into his pants and a yellow tie. “What the hell do you want?” Normally Gagnon was a pleasant man for a Delta Force troop commander, but this situation would try the patience of Job. 

“Pardon me, Major. My name is Oobleck, Bartholomew Oobleck. I’m an instructor at Beacon.”

Gagnon’s voice softened, though only by a fraction. “What can I do for you, Mr. Oobleck?”

“Two things, Major. First of all, are you Delta Force, and secondly, if you are, may my friend and I ride with you?” He thumbed behind him, and Gagnon saw in the rearview mirror a somewhat portly man with a huge mustache, wearing the duty uniform of the Royal Air Force. “We can expedite your passage through the front gate—assuming we get there before the emergency is over.”

“Why do you think I’m Delta Force?” Gagnon asked.

“You’re wearing no insignia but your rank and the USC flag. That means you are not with the 1st Armored Division. Your battle dress is the older Canadian pattern, rather than that worn by local Army or National Guard formations. The truck is National Guard, though you are not, which means you have requistioned it, possibly without clearance. Your hair is longer than Army regulations, and several of the men in the back of the truck are carrying armament not normally issued to regular US Army formations. You speak with a Quebecois accent—Montreal, if I’m not mistaken—but there are no Quebecois-heavy units in the Army, aside from the regiments assigned to guard Quebec…and the disproportionate amount of Quebecois who ended up in Special Forces units. And since none of you are Faunus, I can reasonably assume you are not more White Fang who are simply late to the party. Of course, you _could_ be Princess Patricia’s Light Infantry, though most of those are Albertans—“

Gagnon gaped at the strange man. He was not normally at a loss for words. “Erhm…I’m afraid that’s classified, Mr. Oobleck.”

“Ah! As I thought. Thank you, Major.”

Gagnon realized he’d just confirmed his identity to Oobleck. “You’re from around here, then?”

“Originally, I’m from Montana, but—“

“Good. You can help me.” Gagnon got out of the truck, and walked down the middle of the road. “People of Wisconsin! My unit needs to get to Beacon to kill terrorists! Your cooperation will be appreciated!” He spread his arms out to either side. “Please move your cars off the road!”

He half expected the people staring at him from their cars to ignore him, curse him, or make rude gestures. To his pleasant surprise, people began to drive their cars onto lawns, onto what little shoulder there was, and even into the ditch to clear the road. Ballew began moving forward as Port parked the car, got out and joined Oobleck in swinging into the back of the truck. 

Gagnon motioned the truck forward. It was slow going, but at least they were moving. He ducked as something flashed by overhead. It was triangle shaped and moving fast, but he got a glimpse of it. “A F-117?”

_Squadron Dispersal A_

_1530 Local_

Pyrrha took a deep breath. “We have to keep trying. Whoever’s next, start rolling.”

“Ruby Flight, rolling.” She watched as Ruby’s red-trimmed F-16 rolled out and turned onto the taxiway, followed by Weiss’ Typhoon. 

A shadow passed over Pyrrha’s F-16. She saw the F-22 come over again. “Damn you,” she breathed. “Give us a fair fight.”

“Roman, Neo. Guess who? Eleven low.”

Roman looked over the nose of the F-5 and saw Ruby Rose’s F-16 taxiing forward. “Oh, you can _not_ be serious,” he laughed. “Little Red. She’s mine, Neo. Adam, tell the White Fang to hold their fire. I want to kill that little bitch myself.”

“Understood.” Adam relayed the message to Sienna Khan below. He understood the need for vengeance.

Roman circled patiently, like a shark, as another pair of F-16 and Typhoon lined up on the runway. Neo swung in behind Roman; she’d take the Typhoon. It was hardly sporting, but when it came to Ruby Rose, he wasn’t really in a sporting mood. 

Pyrrha fought down tears. She was ordering her friends into death. The White Fang were waiting, and there was nothing she could do about it. “Ruby, Weiss…go. Combat departure. Keep your speed up.”

“Pyrrha, Ruby. We got this. Here we go.” Ruby sounded calm and confident. Pyrrha didn’t know if it was the confidence of youth or boneheaded optimism. The afterburners lit, and the two began rolling. Pyrrha watched the F-5 and the F-22. They were stalking the pair, waiting. “You’ve got fighters that will be on you the moment you’re in the air.”

“Weiss, tally-ho on the bandits.” Weiss had seen them.

The two fighters shot down the runway.

Roman put his F-5 into a shallow dive, and switched to guns. He’d be too close for missiles in any case. He decided he wouldn’t _quite_ be nasty enough to stitch shells across Ruby’s canopy; if she bailed out, fine, but if she didn’t, oh well. He’d leave it to fate. He centered the gunsight on the back of the F-16 as the nose rotated off the ground.

“Roman, Neo, break right! Break right!” Adam’s shout had Roman’s hands moving before his brain even registered the fact. He fought against the Gs to find out what was attacking him as a Sidewinder sailed past. The F-5 didn’t have the best vision to the rear, so he snapped back to the left, trying to sight his enemy. Then he saw it, turning towards Neo. It was a F-117 Nighthawk, which wasn’t supposed to carry Sidewinders.

Then he had bigger problems. The F-16 and the Typhoon were in the air, and they were turning in his direction. 

“Crow 13 to Beacon.” Pyrrha heard the call. “You got some time. Don’t waste it.”

“Yang, Blake!” Pyrrha yelled. “Go, go, go! Coco, Yatsu, you’re next! Start moving!”

The F-15 and the F-14 were already rolling down the taxiway, faster than normally would be considered safe. Pyrrha could swear that Yang was trying to drift the F-15 as it turned onto the runway, lit its afterburners, and took off.

Adam saw the black F-14. “Fang Six. Don’t you _dare_ fire on the F-14 or the F-15. They’re mine.” He smiled as the two aircraft rose into the air, and throttled back. He wanted Blake to get plenty of room.

_The Treeline_

_1535 Local_

Ilia Amitola was glad Adam had ordered the White Fang to hold their fire. Yuma’s Stinger team was right next to her team, and she would’ve shot him had he fired on the F-14 she knew was Blake’s, CIA cover or no cover. She saw Adam’s Moonslice angling in behind the two fighters as they rose into the air, but there was no way to warn Blake about that. That was in hands other than Ilia’s. 

“Two more coming up!” Ilia saw a Mirage F.1 and a F-2A now moving into position to takeoff. She saw the Spanish markings on the Mirage and wondered if it was Emerald Sustrai; they hadn’t been briefed on whether or not Emerald had maintained her cover. _Fortunes of war,_ she thought; if Emerald got killed, that was one less problem Ilia had to worry about. Yuma’s team had reloaded their Stingers and waited at the edge of the treeline.

She glanced back at the western treeline, where the woods met the main part of the base. There was a firefight going on there, with gunfire occasionally rising and falling, as targets showed themselves and didn’t. That looked to be a draw: the White Fang were in good cover, and the base Security Forces were not about to charge blindly into that cover. 

“Wish we could take a shot,” one of her team sighed. The Javelins weren’t much use against aircraft. They went vertical right after being fired, to attack a tank from above, and they couldn’t guide fast enough on fast movers. A helicopter was not impossible, but a fighter was. He turned back to Ilia. “Should we move over and support the High Leader to the west—“

“Holy shit!” Royce called out, grabbing one of the Javelins and setting it up. “Tanks in the treeline, across the runway!”

_Task Force Karelia_

_1537 Hours_

Karelia stood up a little higher and looked over the slanted front plate of her Abrams. “Yeah, it’s still there, Heather.”

“Well, shit. I can’t see very well with that thing hanging off the front end, Captain,” her driver replied. The thing was the ten feet of base perimeter fence wrapped around the front of the tank, stuck there after they’d hit it at forty miles an hour. It had dragged under the tank, somehow not getting wrapped into the treads, as they bounced through hiking trails in the woods. Karelia’s second tank had taken the lead and torn through a second fence—slower this time, crushing it rather than carrying it—and now they were emerging from the woods, the runway in sight. 

There was a flash from the woods, and a brief smoke trail. Then something shot straight up, trailing flame, and Karelia knew what it was. She dropped into the turret, slamming the hatch, screaming on her mike, “Javelin! Javelin! All Kilo elements, move, move move!” She looked at her gunner, whose face was already pressed to the eyepiece of the sight, and sighted through the vision blocks. “Designate, Gunner, HEAT, antitank team!” The tank surged forward.

“Identified, antitank team,” he confirmed. Through the infrared sights of the Abrams, the gunner could see the glowing heat of figures moving in the treeline. HEAT—High Explosive Anti-Tank—was not really the best weapon to use against infantry, but he just needed to keep their heads down long enough to close the distance. Besides, they had nothing else: the tank was loaded to fight GRIMM, not infantry. “Range 700.” None of the four occupants of the Abrams thought about the Javelin that might be at that moment coming down on their heads; there wasn’t time.

“Up!” the loader called, slamming the shell home and clearing the gun breech.

“Fire!” Karelia called.

“On the way!” The breech slammed back, ejecting the spent shell. At the same time, the Abrams rocked with a nearby explosion. 

Karelia watched the thin trail of smoke the HEAT round left. It took less than two seconds to land in the treeline, blowing trees into splinters. She got on her own sight. The infrared signature of the White Fang were glowing even hotter now, and she remembered reading about how people who were terrified tended to glow almost pure white in infrared sights. She didn’t see anyone down as they went across one runway. “Stop tank!” she shouted. They couldn’t block the runway. “Gunner, Coax, infantry.”

The gunner switched over to the coaxial machine gun, located right next to the main gun. “Identified. Infantry in the treeline, range 250.”

“Fire.” 

The Abrams’ turret began to move left and right, sending 7.62 millimeter bullets scything through the trees. A second round exploded in the trees, sending splinters raining down on the White Fang as Karelia’s second tank pulled up next to her. She twisted around in her seat and saw her third tank burning at the edge of the trees they’d just come from. “Fuck,” she snapped. 

There was another problem to address too, and that required her to risk her life a bit more. Taking a deep breath, she opened her hatch, hoped that there was no enterprising White Fang sniper around who liked to kill tank commanders that stuck their heads out, and did exactly that. Her tanks were parked in the median between the two runways, and neither were blocking them—there was even enough clearance of the main guns. Wondering if she was about to die, Karelia stood up completely, waved her arms frantically, then dropped back down in the turret as a bullet clanged off the hatch. 

“What the hell, ma’am?” her loader asked.

“No way to talk to the flyboys. I hope they got my message.” She stole another quick look, then spoke into her mike. “Target, cease fire!” The tanks stopped firing, and they shook as the Mirage F.1 shot past in afterburner only feet away, and rose into the sky. The gunner didn’t wait for Karelia to give an order; as soon as they were clear, he began hosing the treeline again.  
  


Ilia grabbed Yuma, who was bleeding from where a bullet had torn straight through the membrane of his wing, and dragged him clear, ducking as machine gun fire went through the trees above her. The rest of the Javelin team was dead. “Fall back!” she shouted. “Fall back!” She watched as someone fired an RPG at one of the tanks, only to see it bounce off the front of the turret. The gun tracked on the RPG gunner and another part of the forest exploded. 

Ilia turned over Yuma to Royce, and found Sienna kneeling in a small clearing. “Tanks on the runway, High Leader. We’ve lost our Javelins.”

Sienna nodded. The White Fang’s part in this was over now. She blew four blasts on her whistle, the signal to disperse. The survivors would now break into small groups and exfiltrate to the east. She took the radio headset from her radioman. “Adam, Fang Six. We’re withdrawing. Good luck.” Then she ordered the radioman to drop the backpack radio, pulled a pin from her last hand grenade, and gently placed it under the radio, the spoon held down by the weight of the backpack. Whoever picked up would be in for a fatal surprise.

The machine gun fire slackened again, but it was only to allow another pair of aircraft—a Jaguar and a Lavi, Ilia noted—to take off.

_Above Beacon_

_1540 Hours_

Ruby and Weiss turned hard right, trying to get behind the F-5’s tail, Weiss dropping back to cover Ruby, who had the lead. Blake did the same, touching her speedbrake just a bit to let Yang take the lead in their element. Yang was tracking on the F-22, which was turning in behind Weiss—but _Ember Celica_ was in the Raptor’s blind spot, below and behind. She caught the F-117 ducking out to the west; Qrow Branwen evidently did not want to get caught in the middle of the developing furball. His Nighthawk might be modified, but it was still at a disadvantage against any of the aircraft in the air. 

_Next question,_ Blake asked herself as she looked around, following Yang into a gentle right turn. _Where’s Adam?_ Then she spotted the Moonslice, well to the rear, but still behind her, and her radio crackled. “Running away again? Is that what you’ve become, my love? A coward?”

Blake knew Adam was baiting her. Both _Ember Celica_ and _Gambol Shroud_ could easily outdistance the Moonslice. Her responsibility was to cover Yang’s tail, not engage in a duel with her ex-boyfriend. If he engaged, that was one thing, but right now, he was just sitting there. But despite herself, she still answered his call. She always had. “Why are you doing this, Adam?”

“You and I were going to change the world, remember? We were destined to light the fires of a revolution! And this, my dear…this is the spark that lights the world on fire.” The Moonslice came out of its gentle turn, and Blake saw the nose coming around to bear on Velvet’s Jaguar. “But keep running, if you like.”

Blake snapped the stick hard over to the right, making a hard turn to engage Adam. “I’m not running!” she snarled, baring her teeth under the mask. 

The nose of Moonslice shifted around to face her, as they approached each other head-on. “You _will,”_ Adam promised. “But you’re going to suffer for your betrayal first.”


	82. Into the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the pilots desperately try to get out of Beacon to intercept the GRIMM, a deadly dogfight develops over the base itself: Weiss and Ruby vs. Roman and Neo, and Blake and Yang vs. Adam. 
> 
> Someone's not going to survive this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's the big one, folks. Well, until Pyrrha fights Cinder in the next chapter, anyway.
> 
> In canon RWBY, of course, Weiss wasn't around when Ruby fought Neo and Roman, but there was no way she wouldn't be with Ruby in this story (Weiss wouldn't leave her wingmate), so she's in this fight. The two dogfights actually take place simutaneously; this was the only way I could get it to work without it being too confusing.
> 
> And yes, small arms will kill a high-performance fighter, if it gets down in the weeds. We lost a lot of multi-million dollar airplanes over Vietnam to tens of dollars worth of rifle ammunition.

_Over Joint Base Beacon_

_Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_14 May 2001_

_1540 Hours Local_

“Weiss, Ruby! I’m on Roman! Where are you?” Ruby Rose was trying to keep her nose on Roman Torchwick’s stolen F-5, which was nowhere near as easy as it sounded. She checked her tail and saw the red F-22 closing in. “I’ve got a Raptor on my ass!”

“Ruby, Weiss…I’m on the Raptor.” Weiss’ voice was calm, as if she was discussing going to the store. “DUST, lock onto target, select IRIS-T.” The onboard computer beeped, and in the helmet sight projected on her visor, she saw the gunsight settle on the F-22. It was having trouble keeping locked-- the Raptor’s engines were shielded from infrared—but if necessary, the IRIS could home on the heat from the fighter’s canopy. Weiss squeezed the trigger, and a missile reached out from her Typhoon. It guided on the F-22; if her sheer will could guide the missile, Weiss would have the kill.

Abruptly, the F-22 made a shallow dive, then shot upwards, dropping flares into its wake, as it used its thrust vectoring to suddenly change its direction. The IRIS homed in and blew up a flare, but Weiss barely reacted, firing a second one—only to have the Raptor accelerate, roll, and dodge that missile as well. It shot past _Myrtenaster._ Weiss had succeeded in getting it off Ruby’s tail, at least, but now she would have to pursue, otherwise the Raptor pilot would simply reverse and end up behind both of them. “Ruby, Weiss—I’m going after the Raptor.”

Ruby clicked the mike twice. It meant splitting the element, but there was no choice now. Roman had already dodged one of her Sidewinder shots, so she closed the distance, switching to guns. 

Unfortunately for her, Roman had anticipated it. He waited a precious second, then suddenly threw the F-5 hard to the left. Ruby swore as she overshot, then turned hard to the right, gasping as the G-suit squeezed her hard, fighting against nine times the force of gravity as she punished _Crescent Rose_ into a hard turn. Roman couldn’t sustain this kind of turn, so if he was trying to stay with her—and she couldn’t look around, with her head weighing approximately over eighty pounds—he would be forced back in front.

Weiss climbed hard, then rolled out upside down, over the top, keeping her eyes on Neo. The F-22 was gone. _Oh shit,_ Weiss thought. If she couldn’t see the Raptor, it meant that somehow it was behind her. She pushed the throttle forward and dived.

Neo had seen the Typhoon go into its climb, and realized Weiss had made a mistake: she’d taken her eyes off the Raptor for a few seconds. It was enough for Neo to turn the F-22 within its own length—an act that nearly threw her against the cockpit consoles with its violence, and had her actually screaming against the G-force—go to afterburners, and climb after the Typhoon. “Ha,” Neo snorted, as she ended up behind and underneath her opponent, where Weiss could not see her. She opened fire with the gun, tracking shells into the rear of the Typhoon. Smoke and flame burst from the back of the fighter before the gunfire stopped. Neo glanced at the round counter: the gun was empty. She watched the Typhoon going down, smoking and burning, and smiled: it was finished. She went into a dive, rolled out at the bottom, then saw Roman’s F-5, with the red-trimmed F-16 closing in behind.  
  
Roman had expected that Ruby would break with him, which would allow him to get into a rolling scissors with her, exactly the sort of low-speed knife fight the F-5 excelled at. To his surprise, when he came out of his break and turned into where he thought the F-16 would be, it was not there. “Oops,” he said aloud, and checked the rearview mirrors set into the F-5’s canopy. “Little Red, Little Red,” he sighed, “you’re just _determined_ to be the hero of Vale, aren’t you?” 

Ruby came out of the hard turn and saw the F-5 right in front of her. “Let’s try that again,” she growled, and set up another Sidewinder shot. Then she caught movement the corner of her left eye, a brief flash. Before she could barely register what that meant, her right hand, on the stick, was already moving. She turned _Crescent Rose_ into the flash, and an AMRAAM shot past; her sudden move threw off the missile’s radar head, and she’d escaped its proxmity detonation sensor by mere feet. The Raptor went past seconds later.

Neo cursed; she’d fired the AMRAAM too fast and too close. No matter, she thought, throwing the F-22 into a loop and then rolling back to horizontal as she came out of it: as long as the F-16 kept on its course, she’d be in better parameters. Sure enough, her opponent was in a shallow right turn, making her an easy target—but then Neo’s finger came off the trigger as Roman flew in front of her, pursuing the F-16. It ruined her shot, but she was more than happy to let her lover finish off the annoying little bitch in the Viper. 

Ruby glanced behind her, and swore. Not only had the F-22 gotten in behind her, Roman had turned her own trick against her, also pulling a hard turn and ending up directly behind _Crescent Rose_. The only good thing was that only one of them could take a shot at a time, but now she was totally defensive—and Weiss was nowhere to be seen. 

“Little Red, don’t make me chase you.” Roman’s voice sounded in her earphones, taunting.

“Roman, you dumbass!” Ruby yelled back. “There’s a shitload of GRIMM headed towards us! They’ll kill you too!” She broke right as his nose winked with cannon fire, sending twenty millimeter shells her way. “You don’t stand to get anything out of this!”

“You’re asking the wrong questions, Red!” Roman replied, staying with her in the break. Ruby could not cheat the turn too hard, or Neo’s F-22 would be on her next. “It’s not what I have to gain, it’s what I have to lose! I’m a gambling man, but even I know there’s some bets you just don’t take.”

Ruby dived for the ground; her F-16 didn’t perform any better than the F-5 at low level, but the heat of the ground would throw off Roman’s Sidewinders. Maybe. “Like it or not, the people I’m allied with are going to change this world. You can’t stop them anymore than I can.” Ruby noted a tinge of regret in Roman’s voice, but that didn’t stop him from closing the range, reaching out with the cannon. She weaved as little fireballs skipped past her canopy. “So if you can’t beat ‘em…well, you know the rest.” Roman made a minute change with the stick, putting the gunsight pipper ahead of the F-16, letting Ruby fly right into his guns. It was still a deflection shot, but it would be enough. He cleared his tail as a matter of habit with a quick glance behind. 

His tail was clear. Neo’s was not. “Neo! Break right!” Roman shouted.

Neo had been intent on watching Roman exterminate Ruby Rose—too intent. She’d forgotten the sky around her. It was a rookie mistake: lose sight, lose the fight, but even veterans got target-fixated. And Neo suddenly realized she’d done exactly that.

Weiss roared back into the fight. One engine was out, wrecked by Neo’s cannon shells, but the Typhoon was twin-engined, and could fly on one. Her performance was degraded, but once Weiss had pulled herself out of the dive, looking around frantically and expecting the Raptor to be there to finish her off, she’d realized she was alone. A long turn, compensating for the dead engine, and she saw the dogfight now in front of her. Roman and Ruby were too close together for a missile shot, but the F-22 was in range, and Weiss realized the pilot was not paying attention to the sky around her. “DUST,” she snarled. “Target F-22, AMRAAM.” The DUST system locked on, slaving two AMRAAM to the trigger, and Weiss pulled it twice. Two dropped from the fuselage missile wells and shot towards the F-22.

Neo’s eyes widened as she saw the missiles coming towards her. She was already breaking right before Roman even finished his sentence, trying to throw off the missiles, dropping chaff behind her. It worked—partially. One missile flew past, fooled by the chaff and the F-22’s stealth design. The other almost did, but detonated behind the F-22, getting just enough of a radar return to realize its target was nearby. Fragments shredded the twin tails, and the Raptor fluttered and nearly fell out of the sky.

_“Neo!”_ Roman yelled in terror. But there was nothing he could do: if he broke off to help her, he’d be sandwiched in between the F-16 and the Typhoon. He couldn’t even watch to see what happened, not with the trees less than a hundred feet below, as Ruby got even lower, trying to scrape him off her tail by luring him into the trees. Hating himself, Roman left Neo on her own, behind him.

Neo’s instrument panel had lit up with several warning lights. One engine was damaged and a fire light was on; she hit the fire extinguisher and tried to turn into the Typhoon, but the controls were mushy; Neo realized in horror that the rudders were damaged. 

There was nothing wrong with Weiss’ rudders. She rolled in behind the F-22, and selected guns. The Raptor was trying to dodge, trying to use its thrust vectoring, but all that succeeded in doing was slowing it down even more. Weiss compensated, centered the gunsight on the Raptor’s broad back, and opened fire. Shells chopped into the red spine, and flames erupted from the holes as fuel caught fire. 

“Fuck!” Neo shouted. She leaned back in the seat, kept her legs as steady as possible, reached between her legs, and pulled the yellow handle. The canopy blew off and she was shot free of the Raptor, even as it began to descend. It exploded before it hit the trees.

Neo was knocked out by the force of the ejection, but she came to after only seconds. She twisted around as the seat separated from her and her parachute opened. The Typhoon was already past, leaving a skein of black smoke behind it. Neo let loose with a flood of obscenity, more angry at herself than the person who shot her down. As she tucked up her legs to avoid breaking them against the trees, she hoped that Roman would be all right, and avenge her. “Cinder’s going to be _so_ pissed,” she sighed as the forest rushed up towards her.

Ruby made a slight turn to the left, once more barely dodging Roman’s cannon fire, and found herself over the interstate. She turned back to the right: if Roman’s shells missed her, they would go into the road below, packed with cars and trucks. It also put her back into Roman’s gunsight.

“Oh, well done,” he snarled. “You want to be a hero, huh? Well, then play the part, Little Red, and fucking _die_ like one!” He saw one of his cannon shells hit the top of her tail. 

_Task Force Gagnon_

_Near JRB Beacon Front Gate_

_1545 Local_

The good news was that Gagnon’s appeal to patriotism had worked: they’d covered the six miles on the frontage road to the exit for Beacon in less than ten minutes, even accounting for weaving around stopped traffic. The bad news was, once Ballew had made the turn onto the base access road, he’d run into another solid mass of traffic of people trying to get back onto the base, or off of it. Ahead, the gate was still closed, with the security police yelling at people to turn around and leave.

“Oh, to hell with this!” Gagnon shouted. “Ballew, pull over to the side!” The corporal did as asked, pulling the truck onto the shoulder. He opened the partition to the truck bed. “Grab your kit and abandon the truck! We’ll go in on foot!”

Oobleck was out first, dropping nimbly to the road and running up to Gagnon. “Follow me, Major! They’ll let me on—“ He turned towards the sound of jet engines. “That’s odd. They’re very low.”

Gagnon’s men were piling out of the truck, and he realized they were perfect targets. “That’s because they’re going to strafe our ass!” He unslung his assault rifle. Small arms could be just as lethal as missiles at low level, which was why fighter pilots not flying A-10s avoided getting low as much as possible—all it took was a single bullet through the canopy to kill the pilot, and even high speed was not necessarily a savior. “Everyone down!” he shouted, and knelt, trying to make himself as small a target as possible. There was no point in running; he might as well stand his ground.

Oobleck was still standing, heedless of his safety and more curious than afraid. “That’s Lieutenant Rose,” he said to himself. As she came towards them, he could see the F-5 behind her, the nose flashing as it fired. 

Doctor Bartholomew Oobleck was nothing if not a quick study, and quick on his feet. “Major!” he yelled. “Let the F-16 go and open fire on the F-5!”

“Open fire!” Gagnon shouted. His men raised their assault rifles; Ballew braced the troop’s M240 on the top of the cab and pulled the trigger. Oobleck’s mouth opened in horror as he saw the Delta Force men firing on Ruby.

Roman saw that they were nearly back over Beacon, which meant he could expect Ruby to get more help presently. With the runways clear of White Fang and the airspace temporarily free of fighters, Beacon could surge everything they had left. Then again, they’d have their hands full with the GRIMM, which would be their priority. Adam Taurus was probably fighting his private war with his ex-girlfriend, the lovestruck fool, and that would draw a fighter or two over his way. Roman knew his best chance was to disengage, and in the confusion, fly off and see if he could find where Neo went down. Hopefully she’d been able to eject over the White Fang. If not, he’d land nearby and find her; the F-5 could land on a stretch of road if necessary, and he’d noticed some straight stretches east of the base earlier. 

But he was going to kill Little Red first, and Roman saw his opportunity to do so. Ruby was heading directly for an outcropping of rocks that sat on the west perimeter of the base. If she turned to either side, he’d stitch cannon shells from her canopy to her tail; if she climbed, he’d pop her with a Sidewinder—the hot F-16 against a cold sky. And she couldn’t get any lower without hitting the trees. “Sorry, Little Red!” he shouted. “It’s over! As for me, I’ll do what I do best! Lie, cheat, steal and survive!” Ruby began to climb to avoid the rocks and went over the front gate of the base, and he switched to Sidewinders.

Then the F-5 shuddered with several hits, the sound like rocks hitting a tin roof. Fire warning lights lit up all over the instrument panel, and he heard the engines seize and begin to wind down. Something had hit him, and abruptly, Roman knew what it was. _Small arms,_ he thought. _Son of a bitch._

He pulled back on the stick to get some altitude before he bailed out, but the controls froze, the cables cut by the hail of bullets from below. The F-5 was headed directly for the outcropping. Roman relaxed. There was nothing he could do. 

“Well, _shit_ ,” was Roman Torchwick’s last words.

Oobleck turned as the smoking F-5 smashed into the side of the outcropping and exploded. He watched the F-16 climb into the clouds. “Well done, Major!” he said to Gagnon. “I thought you were firing on the F-16, but instead you led the F-5 perfectly.”

Gagnon lowered the assault rifle. “We’re Delta, Professor. We _can_ shoot. Now if you don’t mind…”

“Certainly! Follow me, gentlemen—and you too, Peter.”

Port grinned and gave Oobleck two fingers, straight up in the air.

  
  
_Over Joint Base Beacon_

_1540 Hours Local_

Blake turned in her straps as the Moonslice flew past her F-14. _Don’t,_ Blake warned herself. _Don’t fight the way he fights. The Moonslice is designed to fight close in, using its forward swept wings and low stall speed. You get into a close-range fight with him, and Adam will kill you. You’ve seen him do it a hundred times._ She hauled back on the stick and climbed, straining against the Gs to keep Adam in sight. He was coming back around. _Come on, you lunatic. Come up here and fight me in the vertical._

But he didn’t. He began circling. “This could’ve been our day, Blake,” he radioed. “Can’t you see that? Are you that blind now?”

She was being baited again, Blake knew. And just like last time, she couldn’t help but answer him. “I never wanted this, Adam! I wanted equality! I wanted peace!” She rolled and dived, keeping her speed up. If Adam wouldn’t fight on her terms, she’d make slashing attacks at him, using the kinetic energy built up in dives to climb away. Sooner or later, she’d shoot him down, or he’d run out of gas. The F-14 could stay over Beacon all day; the Moonslice, she knew, had short legs when it came to range.  
  
“Dammit,” Yang murmured. She’d lost Weiss and Ruby in the clouds, then noticed that Blake was no longer with her. Yang turned _Ember Celica_ around, saw the dogfight between the weird forward-swept winged fighter and the F-14, and switched on her radar. She held her fire. The AMRAAM was a superb missile, but it also had a tendency to home in on anything in front of it: if she fired into the melee between Adam and Blake, it was odds-on which one she’d shoot down. Yang reached forward and turned off her radar. _Maybe I can sneak up on him._  
  


“What you want is impossible, Blake,” Adam answered.

She fired a Sidewinder at him. The Moonslice skidded and dropped flares, and the missile was decoyed off. As she roared past, he took a shot at her with his cannon, but _Gambol Shroud_ was too fast. She lost a little energy in dodging them, but shot back into the sky. “Must I chase you?” he sighed. “I understand, Blake, I really do. All I want is you, Blake.”

“Oh, fuck you.” She rolled out again, checked her range, then saw him fire an AMRAAM at her. Blake dived again, dropping chaff; Adam had fired just within the missile’s minimum range, and it failed to guide. She didn’t bother firing this time, knowing she was out of position, and climbed away. She knew the aircraft she was fighting: the Moonslice also couldn’t carry a lot of weaponry. He probably had one or two missiles left, and that was it. If he ran out, she could pop him at long range. 

Then Blake looked out of her canopy, almost directly into his: he was climbing as well. She could see the white helmet with its red highlights, the tailored black flight suit. “You know, Blake,” he said conversationally, “we should stop meeting like this.”  
  
Yang looked up as she came back around, having flown behind and below both aircraft. Now they were slowing down. Climbing into that was liable to end in a midair collision, and she would rather not lose _Ember Celica_ by smashing it into Blake’s ex. “Come on, you two,” she said. “Give me an opening.”  
  


Blake snapped open the speedbrake between the Tomcat’s tails. Her aircraft slowed, forcing Adam out front, but then she saw his speedbrakes open, even his flaps drop. “Dammit!” she shouted, knowing she was now playing his game again—her stall speed was much higher. She shut the speedbrake, let _Gambol Shroud_ fall over on its right wing, and dived, slamming the throttle forward—the Moonslice might have her in low-speed fighting, but the F-14 could easily outdistance the Moonslice. Then Blake snapped back the throttle and turned hard to the left, popping flares. 

If he’d anticipated her trying to slow down in the vertical, she’d anticipated his next move. Adam had turned, rolled, and set up for a Sidewinder shot into _Gambol Shroud’s_ glowing afterburners. By the sudden turn and the flares, he’d missed. _Now he’ll try to get me into a scissors, slow me down, and gun me,_ Blake grinned savagely under the mask. She turned back to the right, glanced upwards, saw the fighter closing in, and climbed away, just as Yang had when they’d had their mock dogfight. “Got you,” she said under the mask.   
  
Yang saw her opportunity as Blake suddenly climbed. “Smooth move, Blakey!” Yang shouted. Adam was left turning in place, and he was level and slow for a second, which was all she needed. Yang racked the F-15 into a hard turn and selected guns. She’d promised Blake she’d gun Adam down, and Yang intended to make good on her promise.   
  
Blake rolled _Gambol Shroud_ , shedding more speed, forcing Adam out front again, and switched back to Sidewinders even as Adam realized his mistake and turned. It threw off her shot, but his desperate break to the left meant she could still drop in behind him. A quick movement of the thumb went to guns. 

“Blake, break off!” Yang yelled. “I’ve got the son of a bitch! I’m going to blast him in the face!”

“Yang?” Blake said. She’d been so determined to get Adam that she’d forgotten her wingmate. Now she saw the F-15 charging in, closing the range—Yang was also going for a gun pass, head-on. “Yang, _no!”_ She leveled out: if she went after Adam, she was liable to collide with Yang. 

Adam checked the mirrors in the bow of the canopy, saw that Blake was out of position, then rolled and dived as Yang opened fire. She kept her speed up, knowing that her shot was ruined now too, but so was his as he dived out of the fight. 

Except Adam hadn’t dived out of the fight. He rolled again, coming out of the dive, then hauled back on the stick, skidding the Moonslice and pulling its nose upwards. A conventional aircraft would’ve stalled as the airspeed bled off, but the forward swept wings kept the Moonslice in the air and allowed it to remain controllable. As the F-15 flashed by less than two hundred feet away, Adam pulled the trigger. Cannon shells hit the nose, the cockpit, both intakes, the conformal fuel tanks, and the engines as _Ember Celica_ went past. 

“Fuck, I’m hit,” Yang radioed. She moved the stick to break away from the fight, see how bad her aircraft was wounded, but for some reason, the stick didn’t move. Her right hand wasn’t even on it. Yang looked down, curious.

Her right hand was lying on her right foot, atop the rudder pedal. That made no sense. Then she looked over and saw that her right arm was gone below the elbow. There was wind whistling past her helmet, and detachedly she noted that a shell had come through the nose, through the side console, and exited out the canopy. It had also blown off her arm. As she watched, blood pumped from the stump, coating the remains of the console and spraying over the legs of her flight suit. Yang blinked. There was no pain. 

Slowly, she gazed at the instrument panel. _Ember Celica_ was dying, and in her helmet, she could hear Blake screaming that the F-15 was on fire. _Fire,_ Yang thought blurrily, _I should probably get out._ She moved her left arm from the throttle, over to the ejection handle in the center of the seat, wondered idly if she should grab her hand before she left, and pulled the handle. “G’bye, Ember,” she whispered. “Sorry.”

Then, as the seat fired, Yang mercifully lost consciousness.

_“YANG!”_ Blake screamed. She fired an AMRAAM at Adam, more or less ballistically, to keep him away. The F-15 was a mass of flames from the canopy back, and it would explode at any second. The canopy came off and she saw Yang eject. _Ember Celica_ saved its pilot one last time: it simply fell into the woods below without blowing up in midair. 

Blake divided her attention between Adam’s Moonslice, dodging the hasty missile shot, and Yang’s seat. A parachute blossomed over her friend, and Blake, praying Adam didn’t have time for a missile shot of his own, slowed down. There was something wrong with the little figure underneath the olive drab parachute; something missing. 

“Oh God,” Blake gasped, and nearly vomited.

Then the missile warning receiver went off. Blake instinctively climbed, dropping countermeasures, but the receiver kept screaming at her. Blake knew there was only seconds before she would be joining Yang in a parachute, assuming Adam let her live. She punched a button, releasing _Gambol Shroud’s_ decoys. It streamed behind her, the holograms projecting a F-14, but the AMRAAM ignored that. It didn’t ignore the radar reflector underneath the hologram, however, homed in on it, and exploded. The Tomcat shuddered with the explosion, but a quick sweep of her instruments showed no damage had been done. 

“I’m afraid that’s it for me, Blake,” Adam radioed. “But it does look like your friend’s not doing so good…ow, that’s an arm gone. Poor thing. She’ll bleed out unless someone gets to her on the ground soon. And there’s that nice stretch of road there…nice and straight. Nothing that a Marine couldn’t handle, eh, Blake? You’re carrier qualified, I’m sure.”

“I’ll kill you, you fucking bastard!” she shouted.

“You can certainly do that. I’m low on fuel, so I’m out of here.” She saw the Moonslice turn and head northwest. “You can kill me, Blake, or you can save Yang. Which is it?” Blake saw the figure of Yang crumple next to the road, the parachute falling over her like a shroud. 

Blake broke off pursuit and started heading for the road. 

“I figured you’d do that,” Adam sighed. “Know this, Blake: for what you did to the White Fang, and me, I’m going to kill everything you love. Starting with her. Until you come back, Blake. And you will come back, Blake. After you’ve finished running, you’ll come back.”

Then he was gone, as Blake dropped her flaps and lowered the landing gear. It was a straight enough road, and seemed in good repair—a nice two-lane highway with a passing lane, with only one car speeding away. She chopped back her speed and opened the speedbrake, and _Gambol Shroud_ touched down with a puff of smoke. She stood on the brakes, and the Tomcat rolled to a halt, only a few paces from Yang’s body. Even as she raised the canopy and unstrapped, Adam’s words rang in her ears. 


	83. Ride Like the Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ironwood finds Glynda and Ozpin. Ozpin has a deadly secret, one which he intends to use to destroy the Wyvern. Blake has to fight down her fear as she fights to save Yang's life. And now Cinder's got Glynda's F-22, and there's only one person who can stop her: Pyrrha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something of a "lull" chapter in this one, but I needed to get caught up with Mercury and Emerald, then Ironwood and Ozpin, and finally Yang and Blake before we get to the HUGE battle next chapter with the GRIMM, and with Pyrrha vs. Cinder.

_Building 121215 (Base Correctional Facility)_

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_14 May 2001_

_1530 Hours_

It had taken Mercury Black longer than he’d hoped to work his way around to Beacon’s correctional facility—a nice word for jail, he thought. There were security forces everywhere, plus the odd angry shot from the retreating White Fang. But he was here. Walking in was not dramatic: he simply tucked the shotgun under his arm and opened the door.

The facility was deserted, but Mercury had half expected that. Beacon only had so many security people, and they would’ve been called out to fight the White Fang. He easily found his way to the stairwell leading to the downstairs cells. “Hey!” he called out. “Anyone there?”

A SF airman opened the door and looked out. Mercury thought about bluffing it out, but he didn’t have that kind of time, and he honestly wanted to shoot someone. So he raised the shotgun and fired. The airman ducked back behind the door, but not in time to miss getting hit by shot. Mercury leapt down the stairwell, taking two steps at a time, and hit the door full force. The airman had fallen, but raised his pistol and fired twice. They were hasty shots, but both shots struck Mercury in the legs. With a scream of pain, he fell to the ground. Mercury landed hard on his right side, but lay the shotgun flat on the floor and pulled the trigger. He was close enough to touch the airman, so he could hardly miss. The shotgun blast tore into the man’s chest. Mercury, gritting his teeth against the pain, leaned over and shot him a third time, in the face. 

“Emerald!” he said. “You here?”

“Yeah! Mercury?” She came to the door of the cell nearest him; when the first shot went off, she’d rolled under the cell’s bed. “Oh shit!” She saw him bleeding from both legs.

“Was this fucker alone?” He thumbed at the airman’s body.

“Yes, I think so. The keys are on his belt.” Mercury found them and tossed them through the cell door. Emerald let herself out, then ran over to the first aid kit hung on the wall. Quickly, she pulled bandages out and wrapped his legs. The right leg was broken, but the left was more or less a clean wound. She splinted the right leg as best she could, then couldn’t resist kissing Mercury. “You came back for me,” she said, tears in her eyes.

“Cinder’s idea,” Mercury replied. “We were afraid they’d make you talk.” Even as he said it, he realized he was lying. That hadn’t been the only reason he’d come back for Emerald.

Emerald made a face. “Well, that figures. Hope you have a car, anyway.”

“Yeah. Over by the hospital.”

“Can’t go there; they’d recognize us both.” Emerald helped him to his feet. Using her and the shotgun as a crutch, they began to slowly make their way up the stairs. Before they did, she grabbed the airman’s pistol. “Where’s Cinder?”

“Went to go kill that Fall Maiden chick. I think she was going to kill Ozpin, too.” He stopped to get his breath halfway up the stairs. “Fuck, this hurts.”

“We’re not going to be able to help her very much,” Emerald said.

“Yeah, well…fuck Cinder. We gotta get out of here, Emerald. She may want to die for the cause, but I damn sure don’t. Bad enough I had to let that Yang bitch shoot my ass off.” He looked at her. “You want to stay here and die?”

Emerald was silent for a moment, then began helping him up the stairs. “No.”

_Base Headquarters_

_1535 Hours_

James Ironwood ran up the stairs, a security platoon at his back; the elevator would take too long. Base Headquarters was too quiet, and that scared him. He slammed open the doors to the top floor, Ozpin’s floor, and nearly tripped over Glynda Goodwitch’s legs.

“Oh my God,” he breathed, and knelt next to her. Glynda was pale normally, but her skin had taken on something of a waxy, grayish tint to it. She was lying in a puddle of blood. He checked her pulse: it was weak, but still there.

Her eyes fluttered open. “James?”

“I’m here. Medic!” he shouted. “Medic!” A medic quickly shouldered his way through the security men gathered around, but Glynda weakly waved him off. “Glynda, you’re hit bad,” Ironwood told her, thinking she was in shock.

She smiled at him. “No shit. Listen. It was Cinder, Cinder Fall. She shot me, and she shot Ozpin. Never mind me. Go check Ozpin.” She looked past him, to a sergeant. “You. Put a guard around my F-22. Cinder was going for it.” Then back to Ironwood. “Go check Ozpin, dammit!”

“All right.” He touched her face, wished he could kiss her, and then Ironwood was up and running for Ozpin’s office. Behind him, he could hear the medic going to work. Ironwood had been around enough wounds to know that Glynda had lost a lot of blood, and was conscious by sheer force of will. _She’s too mean to die,_ he reassured himself, and went through Ozpin’s door, which was still open.

At first he thought it was empty. Then he saw the computer, still smoking, and Ozpin’s foot, sticking out from behind his desk. He ran around it, and saw his friend lying on the floor, sprawled out, blood pooled around his head. Ironwood got around the body and the wall; not easy for a man his size. “Oh, fucking hell. Not you, Oz. Not you.”

The body stirred. Ironwood dropped down, got a hand around the shoulders. Ozpin slowly turned to look at him. There was a lot of blood, but the bullet had just grazed his temple. Head wounds always bled a lot, but as far as Ironwood could tell, Ozpin was otherwise unhurt. He couldn’t help but grin. “You lucky son of a bitch.”

Ozpin reached up and touched his forehead. Blood was still oozing out. “Don’t feel lucky. Felt like someone hit me in the head with a hammer.” He sat up, still supported by Ironwood, who grabbed Ozpin’s coffee cup. The coffee inside was cold, but it washed the dried blood from his forehead. “If I hadn’t turned at the last second…”

“Cinder?” Ozpin painfully nodded. “Should’ve shot that bitch.”

“No way of knowing.” Suddenly Ozpin’s eyes cleared. “Glynda!”

“Cinder shot her too. She’s still alive. She’s a tough one.” 

“Help me up.” Ironwood did as asked, and was surprised at how light Ozpin was. He’d gotten used to Ozpin being an iron man of sorts: the man was well into his sixties, but he barely looked fifty. Ozpin leaned against the desk. The computer was a ruin. “We activated the Fall Maiden,” he told Ironwood. “Right before Cinder showed up. The President has given release authority.”

“In God’s name, why?” Ozpin told him about the giant GRIMM approaching Beacon. “She can’t use it,” Ironwood told him. “It still needs the activation codes, and she doesn’t have any of them.”

“She has Amber’s. She killed her, James. Cinder murdered Amber.”

Ironwood slammed a hand into the desk. “Dammit! Salem’s been one step ahead the whole time.” He looked up at Ozpin. “She can’t use the Fall Maiden with just Amber’s code, can she?”

“She shouldn’t be able to. The President has activated the Maiden, but he still needs my code and Amber’s to use it. The same is true of Amber’s code—it still has to have the other two codes. It’s active right now, but it doesn’t have a target.” Ozpin sagged into his chair, his head throbbing with pain, blood running down the side of his face. Ironwood yelled out the door for a medic. “She said Salem doesn’t want control of the Maidens. She only wants to make sure they’re unable to be used.”

“Makes sense. Without the Maidens, she’d be hard to stop.” Ironwood stepped back as the medic arrived, saw Ozpin’s wound, and immediately began cleaning it. “I’m sorry I took so long, Oz. The White Fang tried to kill me in the VOQ, and then I had to organize the defense. We’ve pushed them back to the woods, and they’re retreating to the east. Thank God someone up at Camp McCoy thought to send us some tanks. They were surging the fighters last I saw, but we’ve already taken some losses.”

“We’ll worry about that later, James.” Ozpin waited until the medic had gotten the bandage on, then gently pushed the man away. “That’s good enough for now.”

“You’ve lost a lot of blood, sir—“ the medic began.

“I’ll be to the hospital directly. Carry on, son.” The medic nodded and left the office. Ozpin picked up the phone--luckily, Cinder had not thought to destroy that—and dialed the tower. “Good to hear your voice, sir,” the tower chief said. “Thought we’d lost you.”

“Not yet, Chief. What’s the status of that GRIMM—the Wyvern?” Ozpin put the phone on speaker.

“Fighters engaged it five minutes ago,” the chief replied. “Major Nikos is commanding. It’s huge, sir. Never heard of anything like it. Crow 13 isn’t sure we can stop it.” There was a pause. “Got good news and bad news, sir. Good news is that the White Fang are in full retreat; base security and those two tanks from McCoy are in pursuit. The front gate told me they’ve just had a platoon of special forces arrive from McCoy too. All three White Fang fighters that they had over us have either been destroyed or they’ve hauled ass too.”

“Good,” Ozpin said. “The bad news?”

“Ten fighters are gone, sir. Two on the ground, eight in the air. Either got shot down trying to take off or didn’t make it against the Fangers.”

Ozpin’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Do you know who?”

“Russel Thrush, Dove Bronzewing, Sky Lark, Flynt Coal, Arslan Altan, Bolin Hori, Nebula Violette, Gwen Darcy, and Yang Xiao Long.” There was a pause. “Thrush, Lark, and Coal are all right—they all bailed out and they’ve been picked up by the Army. Altan’s F-16 got blown up by the Fang, but he’s okay. Violette was badly wounded, but she’s been taken to the hospital; Chief Vogelgemord called us. Hori and Darcy are KIA; they didn’t get out in time. Long’s MIA. We got a report she bailed out, but we’ve heard nothing more. Blake Belladonna is missing, but she may have landed somewhere.” The chief’s voice was thick with emotion. He’d gotten to know many of those names. 

So had Ozpin. He looked up at Ironwood, who spoke. “Chief, this is Ironwood. Add Scarlet David and Fox Alasdair to the list. Both were wounded as well, but also off to the hospital.”

“Yes, sir. Just getting to that.”

“And Ciel Soleil is dead. I think she got caught when the White Fang first hit us. We found her body next to her F-15.”

“Jesus God,” the chief said after a moment. They’d been hit hard, and the battle wasn’t even close to being over yet.

“Distance to the Wyvern?” Ozpin asked. He had to get them back on track, or there would be a lot more dead.

“Fifty miles, bearing…one-seventy-five. Altitude ten thousand. There’s at least 20 Beowolves and Ursai around it.”

“How many fighters do we have making the intercept?”

“19.” The chief read the names: Jaune Arc, Pyrrha Nikos, Nora Valkyrie, Lie Ren, Cardin Winchester, Coco Adel, Yatsuhachi Daichi, Velvet Scarlatina, Sun Wukong, Sage Ayana, Neptune Vasillas, Neon Katt and Kobalt Ivori, Reese Chloris, Nadir Shiko, Dew Gayl and Octavia Ember. “Add to that Crow 13—whoever that is—and Ruby and Weiss. The latter got two of the White Fang fighters. Weiss has been damaged, but she’s still in the fight.”

“Thank you, Chief. Hold on a moment.” Ozpin put his hand over the receiver. “Not enough, James. They’ll get through the Wyvern’s escorts, but not have enough to kill it.”

“Then we’re screwed,” Ironwood replied quietly. “The other bases—Sioux Falls and Ellsworth—have probably scrambled by now, but they’re not going to get here in time. Not before the Wyvern gets to Beacon. And that assumes it stops here and doesn’t go to Chicago.”

“Not quite yet, James.” Ozpin moved the phone to his mouth again. “Chief, I am ordering an evacuation of Beacon. I want all personnel evacuated at least ten miles distant; twenty miles if possible. That includes you, Chief. Turn over control to Regency and get out of here.”

“Sir?”

“Chief, if we can’t stop the Wyvern, I don’t want it killing everyone on base. We can rebuild Beacon. Understand? Pass it along to the ground crews.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” 

Ozpin smiled. The chief sounded like he held himself responsible. “Not your fault, Chief. You’ve done an admirable job. We’ll talk to you later.” Before he could hear any protests, Ozpin hung up. “James, you’ll need to organize the evacuation. I’ll stay here and work the phone.”

Ironwood shook his head. “Like hell, Oz. What are you really up to? I know that tone of voice.”

Ozpin reached over and picked up his cane. It had fallen to the carpet when Cinder had shot him. He twisted the cane’s ornate head and pulled, then stripped off a thin bit of tape. On the spine of the cane was a small numeric keypad and a red button. “James, I’ve never told anyone this.” He held up the cane. “I can control the Fall Maiden with this. I don’t need Amber’s code nor the President’s. All I have to do is program the coordinates and hit the button.”

“You…you always had it…” Ironwood stammered.

“Indeed. I came up with the concept of the Maidens, after all. I gave the briefing to all the Presidents—Kennedy, Nixon, Carter, Reagan, Bush, Clinton, and now Shawcross.” He set the cane on his desk. “None of them knew that I’ve always had the power. If I knew exactly where Salem was, I would’ve already used it on her.”

“You crazy bastard,” Ironwood breathed. “But thank God for that.” He held up a finger. “You’d better not think of sacrificing yourself, Oz.”

“Not at all. But like the captain of a sinking ship, I will be the last to leave. Don’t argue with me, James. Now get going. These men and women need a leader.”

“All right. But I meant what I said.” Ironwood turned to leave, only for the sergeant that had come with his security team to arrive at the door. “Sir…beg to report…”

“What, what?” Ironwood demanded.

“We went to the F-22, like Colonel Goodwitch asked, but—“ The windows rattled with the sound of a fighter taking off in full afterburner. Ozpin turned in his chair and saw Goodwitch’s camouflaged F-22 climbing hard, away from the base. Then it made a hard turn towards the west.

_Near Necedah, Wisconsin_

_1550 Hours Local_

Blake dropped down from the F-14 and rushed over to the parachute. She searched through the nylon until she found her friend’s body. Yang was still unconscious, her face pale, her lips oddly curled into a smile. Blake bent close: Yang was still breathing. 

The arm was the most pressing matter. Blake built the parachute up under it, careful not to touch the hideous wound with her gloved hands; Yang didn’t need an infection on top of her other problems. Blood still dripped steadily from the severed arteries; the skin was ragged around the wound, the bone splintered. Reaching into her survival vest, Blake got out the tourniquet and tied it tight around Yang’s arm above the elbow. She’d seen enough wounds during her time with the White Fang. Yang had lost a great amount of blood, but if she got to a hospital soon and got a transfusion, she would live. Blake tightened the tourniquet a little more, then stripped off her gloves and got out the vest’s bandage. It wasn’t much, but it might help a little; she tried wrapping it around the stump, taking the fishing line included in the vest to tie the bandage on. 

“Hey.”

Blake looked up. Yang was staring at her, her eyes huge. The smile broadened. “For my guardian angel, you sure look like Blake Belladonna.”

The Faunus wiped her eyes. “Stop it.” She reached up and unzipped the top of Yang’s flight suit, trying to find her dogtags. “Whoa now.” Yang’s grin was lazy with shock. “You need to buy me dinner first.” 

Finally Blake pulled the tags from Yang’s considerable cleavage. The tags held Yang’s blood type: AB positive.

Suddenly Yang tried to reach over with her good arm. Blake slapped the hand away. “Don’t touch it!”

“How bad?” She raised the stump. Blake put her hand under Yang’s head and helped her look. “Weird,” Yang said conversationally. “Doesn’t hurt at all.” She grinned up at Blake. “In fact, it’s positively disarming.”

“Only you could make a pun at a time like this.” Blake helped her head back down, and saw Yang’s eyes roll back as she passed out again. She checked her friend’s pulse. It was thready. If the blood loss didn’t kill her, shock might. Her skin was cooler. Blake wrapped the parachute around her, trying to make her as comfortable as possible.

She looked back at _Gambol Shroud._ She had to get Yang help. She could radio Beacon; the base wasn’t far away. She had just gotten to her feet when she heard the squeal and clank of tank treads. To her surprise, the noise was followed a minute later by a M1 Abrams main battle tank, coming out of the forest, through some unfortunate farmer’s fence, then grind its way onto the road further down. Blake frantically waved her hands, and was about to grab a flare when the tank commander turned and saw her. The tank groaned to a halt, then turned back in their direction. When it stopped, Blake cupped her hands to her mouth. “Help me! I’ve got wounded!”

“That’s a Faunus!” she heard one of the tank crew say. 

“Stop it!” another voice yelled. “She’s one of ours!” From the loader’s hatch, a figure took off his helmet, slid down the front of the turret, and jumped off. It was Flynt Coal. 

“Flynt!” Blake shouted. “Get over here!” She pointed to the tank commander. “You too! Get your ass over here, that’s an order.”

The tank commander took off her helmet and followed Flynt. As they got closer, Blake realized that the tank commander was a captain as well. 

“Holy shit,” Flynt said as he got close. “Yang? What happened—oh, Jesus.” He saw the severed arm.

“Got shot down. She needs a hospital, fast. She’s in shock and has lost a lot of blood,” Blake explained. The captain knelt quickly, inspected the wound, and straightened. “We’ll radio it in,” the captain said. She turned and yelled back to the tank to call in a medevac. “A helicopter can get here a lot faster than we can get her to a hospital. They’re already out picking people up.” She saw the look on Blake’s face. “Don’t worry, Captain Belladonna. We’ll stay here with her until the medevac arrives.”

“Thank you, Captain…Bighorn-Vlata.” Blake read the nametape. “What are you doing out here?”

“Looking for White Fang. Sorry about the Faunus thing. Anyhow, they retreated in this direction.”

“I doubt you’ll find them, Captain,” Blake said. “They’ve broken into small groups and probably changed into civilian clothes.”

Bighorn-Vlata looked at her strangely, suspicion on her face. But the expression passed. “Not much point anyway. Beacon’s evacuating. There’s a shitload of GRIMM coming.”

Flynt stood up, brushing off his flight suit. Blake noticed there were scorch marks on the fire-resistant nomex. “Got crisped a little bit,” he said. “Nothing bad.”

“In the ejection?” Blake asked.

“Pulling some of my people out of a burning tank,” Bighorn-Vlata answered instead. She slapped Flynt on the back. “We’ve made him a honorary tanker.”

“Anyway, Captain—you’d better get back in the air. We took a beating,” Flynt told her. “They need all the help they can get.”

Blake hesitated. She wanted to make sure Yang was going to survive, but Flynt was right. Ruby Flight was already down one person; there was no reason to be down two. “All right. Captain, if you don’t mind, I need you to move your tank. I don’t know if I’ve got enough room to turn around.” She also didn’t know if she had enough room to take off; the treeline looked all too close, and trees hemmed the road in on both sides. 

“On it.” Bighorn-Vlata went running back towards the Abrams. Flynt nodded to Blake. “We’ll take care of Yang, Blake. Don’t you worry, now.” He pulled out his own dogtags. “AB positive too. If I have to, I’ll give her some of my blood.”

“Okay.” Quickly, Blake went over to Yang. She was still out, her breathing shallow. Blake couldn’t stop the tears from coming. “I’m sorry, Yang.” She gripped her friend’s remaining hand, then bent forward and kissed her forehead. “I’m so sorry.” Then Blake let go, touched Flynt’s shoulder in passing, and ran back to the Tomcat. It was a bit of distance from the road to the cockpit, but Blake’s catlike reflexes allowed her to chin herself on the canopy frame and pull herself into the cockpit. Once inside, she hooked up everything again, put on her mask, and lowered the canopy. 

The tank was out of the way, though it had left gouges in the asphalt. Blake kept her feet on the brakes as she ran the F-14 up to full power, then let off the brakes and surged forward. She had a brief glimpse of Flynt and the tank commander bending down next to Yang, and then they were past, the tank was past, and the trees were there. Blake pulled back the stick, prayed, and _Gambol Shroud_ struggled into the air. She thought she felt the fighter brush the tops of the trees, but then she was in the clear, headed southwest. Blake switched on her radar and turned west. There was indeed many contacts there.

_You always run._ Adam’s voice suddenly sounded in her head, as clear as if he was sitting beside her. _You’re afraid, Blake. Afraid you’re going to kill someone else. Afraid someone else is going to die for you. Yang’s going to die, Blake, and it’s your fault. It’s always your fault. No one else’s. Just yours. You’ll never stop running, Blake._

“No!” Blake exclaimed, bringing a fist down on her knee hard enough to leave a bruise. “I’m not going to run!” Her left hand tightened on the throttle, willed it to move forward. But her hand wouldn’t budge. The old fear, the old panic, blossomed in her chest like a black flower, and the fear sweat broke out on her forehead. Tears began to run over her oxygen mask. “Move,” Blake moaned. “Please move.” But she was frozen in utter terror.

_Beacon Intercept Package_

_Near Cashton, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_1550 Hours Local_

“Formation spread,” Pyrrha ordered. She looked at the radar screen below her HUD. The smaller GRIMM were staying close to their charge, which her radar was starting to get a return off of; this Wyvern might be stealthy, but its sheer size guaranteed a radar return of some kind. Neon, Cardin, and Crow 13—who had identified himself as Ruby and Yang’s uncle Qrow—were already engaged. “Push it up,” she ordered next. They had to close the distance, intercept the GRIMM as far out from Beacon as possible. 

“Pyrrha, Beacon Tower.”

“Pyrrha, go.”

“Pyrrha, you have a F-22 coming up behind you. That aircraft is a bandit, repeat, that F-22 is _not_ friendly. It’s Witch Lead’s aircraft, but we have reason to believe it has been stolen, possibly by Major Fall. Major Fall is now considered an enemy combatant. Do you understand, Pyrrha?”

_That’s not good,_ Pyrrha thought. Cinder Fall had proven herself a good pilot at Vytal Flag. She was an Eagle Driver, but the controls of a F-22 and a F-15 were not so dissimilar. She was a threat, and the intercept force could not afford to be hit from behind while trying to stop the GRIMM, nor could they afford to be distracted, looking over their shoulder as the Raptor tore through their formation. “Understood. All Beacon aircraft, Beacon tower, go to channel base plus two.” Everyone switched from the standard radio channel to the more discreet Channel Three. They hadn’t set a base before they’d taken off, but the agreed upon default was always Channel One. Pyrrha just hoped Cinder didn’t remember that. 

Pyrrha came to a decision. Cinder was a good pilot; in the F-22, she would be a formidable one. There was only one person left at Beacon who could take Cinder, and it was her. Goodwitch could have done it, but Glynda Goodwitch was missing, possibly dead. It was simple fact. “Crow 13, Pyrrha,” she radioed.

“Crow 13, go.”

“Take over command of intercept package. I’m going after Creamer Lead. Did you hear Beacon’s last transmission?”

“Roger that. I have command.” Qrow outranked her in any case, by seniority, and had been present the longest. “Go get her, Pyrrha.”

Pyrrha turned the F-16 hard, and saw Jaune’s Mirage also turning. “Jaune, stay where you are.”

“Juniper Flight’s coming with—“

“Negative,” Pyrrha snapped. “You’re needed against the GRIMM! Go!”

“But—“

“There’s no time!” Pyrrha shouted. “That’s an order!”

“Pyrrha, you can’t do this! Pyrrha, I won’t let you do this—“

“I’m sorry,” Pyrrha said, then reached over and switched off her radio. She pushed the throttle into afterburners, and headed back towards Beacon. 


	84. Shoot to Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the survivors of Beacon engage the GRIMM, namely the Wyvern, Cinder stalks them from behind--only to find herself engaged with Pyrrha. 
> 
> Only one of them is walking away from this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A battle so big it had to be spread over two chapters!

_Near Trempeleau, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_1555 Local_

Cardin Winchester prided himself on never really having been scared in his flying career. Well, there had been that time he and Cardinal Flight had dueled an enraged Pyrrha Nikos, but even then, deep down, he'd known it was a simulation.

Today was different, however. Cardin was not only scared, he was terrified, and he was quite surprised to find himself still alive. In the space of less than an hour, he'd seen his flight wiped out aside from himself, nearly been killed by a SAM fired by his own side, and then barely evaded a F-22 that seemed to be more toying with him than anything else. It had finally broken away after a wild chase down the Mississippi River valley, but once he was sure it was gone, he'd climbed back up to something resembling safe altitude, taken some deep gulps of oxygen, surprised himself by discovering he _hadn't_ wet his pants, and gotten the vector to engage the GRIMM approaching Beacon. GRIMM—stupid drones that didn't make him feel like deer being hunted by a wolf—sounded like just what the doctor ordered to get revenge for Cardinal Flight.

This was something new, however. Beowolves and Ursai were like old friends, almost. The monster Wyvern that brought up the rear was something else entirely. Short of a nuke—and they certainly didn't have anything like that—he didn't see how they were going to stop it.

"Cardin, this is Crow 13. Is that you at my three o'clock high? Waggle your wings."

Cardin did so, and caught movement against the forest. It was a F-117. He had no idea what one was doing here, but at least it was friendly. He hoped. "Crow 13, are you in the Nighthawk?"

"That's a rog. Neon, you out here?"

"Roger that!" Neon Katt's ebuillence was good to hear, but both men heard the tinge of rage in her voice. "We're trailing the big bastard at 40 miles. We worked our way behind it. The GRIMM didn't seem to notice us until we got within 20 miles. Soon as we backed off, they didn't pursue."

"Yeah, sounds like they're programmed to maintain close escort. Good; we can use that." Cardin watched the F-117 begin to climb. "Cardin, Neon: I'm going high. Neon, continue to trail. Cardin, circle east and join up with Interception Package Alpha. Pyrrha has command. I'll try to find you guys some weak spots."

Cardin acknowledged after Neon did, and circled around. He checked his fuel gauge. Half tanks, but that was still plenty. Luckily the F-15 was built for long engagements. He saw the cloud of fighters coming up from Beacon, and beyond them, the specks and flashes of a dogfight. He wondered who those were, but that was someone else's problem. Normally, he might have chafed at being under Pyrrha's command, but now issues of who led who seemed rather secondary. He saw the gray Mirage F.1 of Emerald Sustrai, followed by the blue F-2A of Yatsuhachi Daichi and, to his surprise, the gray Jaguar of Ruth Lionheart. "Yatsu, Cardin. Is that Coffee Flight?"

"Cardin, Coco," came the feminine voice. "Yeah, it's us. I'm borrowing Emerald's Mirage; that's Velvet in the Jag."

"Mind if I join up?" Then he remembered how he'd treated Velvet Scarlatina; he wondered if joining up with Coffee was such a great idea after all.

"More the merrier. You're now Coffee Four." Cardin realized he'd been informally demoted, but like being led into combat by Pyrrha Nikos, it seemed rather pedestrian to be concerned. In the distance, he could still see the fires where Cardinal Flight had been shot down.

* * *

Jaune watched Pyrrha's F-16 disappear into the clouds. He began turning again, but Qrow's voice stopped him. "Hold formation, Juniper Lead. Ruby Flight, come in. We need you to backstop Pyrrha." There was a pause. "Ruby Flight, this is Crow 13. Come in." Another pause. "Beacon Tower, contact Ruby Flight. They may not have heard the channel call." Beacon Tower acknowledged. "Juniper, we need you right here. Pyrrha will be along. Stand by to engage." Qrow's voice was calm, and Jaune took strength from it, beside himself with worry for Pyrrha.

Then there was no more time to worry, because they passed through a bank of clouds, and there were the GRIMM. A veritable cloud of GRIMM were in front, but it was the monster behind that seemed to fill the horizon. One part of Jaune knew that was impossible, but it certainly seemed so, and he had some kind of deep ancestral memory surface, of being prey in a deep French forest, hunted by something bigger and more cunning than he was.

* * *

"Crow 13 to all Beacon elements. We're going to hit the merge with the GRIMM in a few seconds. Engage with close-range weapons only; save your big stuff for the Wyvern if you can. Neon, engage with Phoenixes now. You should distract the GRIMM. Coffee, Sun Flights: engage the GRIMM, clear the way for Auburn and Juniper to engage the Wyvern. Dew, Octavia, attach yourself to Auburn. Reese, you're in command." Qrow didn't really know any of the girls from Auburn or Indigo Flights; he only knew Reese Chloris because she flew that ancient Hunter.

He saw the Phoenixes arrive—the Beowolves and Ursai were out of position, out in front of the Wyvern, Neon and Kobalt's F-14 out of detection range. One Phoenix slammed into the Wyvern, and the other exploded just short. For a wild moment, Qrow thought the giant GRIMM had some sort of force field, but then saw turrets appear the length of the ship, and realized it was very much an upscaled Nevermore. Two Ursai peeled off to engage the new threat to the rear. "Coffee and Sun, go!"

Then Qrow dived on the Ursai as he saw the Tomcat roaring in, wings swept. The Ursai never detected him, the F-117's stealth making him practically invisible to their radar. He opened the weapons bay and fired his last two Sidewinders at one Ursai. Both tracked and the GRIMM exploded. The remaining Ursai's computer brain acknowledged the attack from behind, couldn't find a target as it turned to engage, and confused, went straight and level as its CPU tried to figure out what was going on. It joined the other Ursai seconds later as Neon emptied her cannon into it as she swept by. As Qrow climbed back into position above the Wyvern, Kobalt locked the F-14's radar onto the Wyvern—at this range, it wasn't hard, stealth or no—and Neon fired her two AMRAAM, then broke off as the rear turrets swiveled in her direction, climbing away and overtaking the F-117. Both AMRAAM hit, but the Wyvern flew on without noticeable damage.

* * *

_Near Viroqua, Wisconsin, United States of Canada_

_14 May 2001_

_1555 Hours Local_

Cinder Fall checked her fuel and smiled. Glynda Goodwitch had apparently made sure her F-22 was fully fueled and rearmed. She kept her speed down nonetheless: Watts had informed her that fueling arrangements were being made at Torchwick's former base at Mountain Glenn, but she couldn't count on that. She would probably have to land at Hector, and then probably move on to one of the boltholes in the Pacific Northwest that even Sienna Khan wasn't aware of. It was going to be a very long day, but it was going to be a very profitable one. She'd already killed Goodwitch and Ozpin, which would make Salem happy, and now she was going to ensure the giant GRIMM made it to Beacon and beyond. Cinder knew Salem intended to raze the base to the ground, which she thought was a bit petty—Beacon, without aircraft, was no threat, and an attack on Chicago would do far more to destablize the United States of Canada than an attack on Beacon would. She climbed slightly, positioning herself in the scattered clouds; by now, she had to assume someone at Beacon knew there was a wolf coming into the sheep herd. Still, there would be hesitation and fear.

Her Radar Warning Receiver abruptly shrilled for her attention. Cinder's eyes went to the threat display, which showed a radar-guided missile headed her way at Mach 3. She slammed the stick to one side with her right hand, dropping chaff behind her as Cinder broke hard to the right. The Raptor's sudden maneuver and the chaff cloud caused the AMRAAM to miss and explode behind her. Cinder blew through a cloud, rainwater appearing and dissipating off her canopy in a second, and she craned her head to see her attacker, switching on her radar at the same time.

Then she saw it: a F-16, in the two shades of light gray camouflage of the Hellenic Air Force. _Nikos,_ she thought. _Well, well._ A quick scan of the sky and the RWR showed no other threats: Pyrrha was alone, offering mortal combat as the old days, when knights and samurai would ride out to do battle between the lines. Cinder smiled beneath her mask: there was something rather appealing to that, actually. And she could kill Pyrrha and still disrupt the Beacon interception of the GRIMM.

She tightened her turn a little, as did Pyrrha. The two women stared out of each other's canopies as they made a close pass. Cinder was wearing Glynda's purple helmet, but she was quite sure Pyrrha was not fooled. In the split second they looked at each other, the contract was sealed: one of them was going to die.

Cinder moved first. She racked the F-22 into an extremely tight left turn, using the Raptor's thrust vectoring to cheat the turn even tighter.

* * *

Pyrrha saw the tailplanes of the Raptor move and knew that Cinder was going to turn in behind her. _She wants to end this quick,_ Pyrrha thought, pushing the thoughts of Jaune out of her head; she could afford no distractions now. Her F-16 was outclassed in every category by the F-22, and she already knew Cinder was a superb pilot. This would be the fight of her life.

But she still might have one advantage.

Pyrrha pushed the throttle forward and engaged the afterburner, going into a hard climb as Cinder got in behind her, then throttling back slightly and throwing in a few rolls. One finger rested on the countermeasures button: _Milo_ was now an excellent target for a Sidewinder shot, hot aircraft against cold sky, and Cinder could simply slow down, or even simply point her nose upwards and fire a missile. Pyrrha watched the mirrors in her canopy frame.

Cinder followed her into the climb and closed the distance. Despite herself, Pyrrha smiled, because now she knew her opponent's weakness: Cinder was going for a guns kill, to finish her in the old way, and make it personal. Cinder Fall was overconfident and cocky, and that was the one advantage Pyrrha Nikos had.

Pyrrha waited for an agonizing second, then suddenly throttled back even further, almost to a stall, and let the F-16 fall over onto its right wing, then drop out of the sky. The F-22 shot past, and Pyrrha once more pushed the throttle forward, speeding up, gaining space. Cinder might want to duel like it was World War I, but Pyrrha had no such intentions: she was going to blow Cinder out of the sky with a missile if she got the chance. A quick look behind her, and then she came out of the dive back into level flight, and turned back into Cinder.

" _Skata,_ " she cursed. _She's so fast!_ The F-22 was already out of its climb, twisting around, diving on Pyrrha. The two went head-on again, missing each other by only feet, feeling the others jetwash. A scream escaped from Pyrrha's lips as she went hard left into a horrific 9-G turn, trying to make the turn—but once more, the Raptor's ability to thrust vector left her coming out of the turn with Cinder right behind her.

* * *

_Near Sparta, Wisconsin_

_1600 Hours Local_

Cardin stayed loosely on Velvet's wing as they went in, his radar alive with returns. The range spiraled down. _This is it,_ he thought, a cold sweat breaking out, _the merge._ The merge was where a lot of fighter pilots died, in that sudden collision when both sides were in range and opened fire. Qrow had said to hold fire, engage with short-range weapons only, but Cardin couldn't take any more waiting, with the GRIMM bearing down, the closing rate nearly the speed of sound. He locked up two Beowolves and fired. Two AMRAAM dropped from the F-15's fuselage and bored in, destroying both targets.

"Here we go!" Coco yelled to no one in particular, and then Cardin tried to get smaller in his cockpit, throwing the big fighter around as cannon shells and one missile flew past, and at least one Beowulf passed so close he was sure he could've reached out of the canopy and touched it. Then he was through, and the Wyvern was in front. Cardin unloaded both of his remaining AMRAAMs at it, then turned away into a hard left turn, coming back around. He couldn't tell if either of his missiles struck.

"Cardin, check six!" someone yelled; it sounded like Jaune. "You've picked two of them up!" Cardin kicked the tail around, and saw the two GRIMM bearing down. There were no expressions on the drones, of course, but he could have sworn they looked downright pissed. One fired a missile, and he decoyed it off with a flare. Another missile spiraled towards him; Cardin hit the countermeasures button, but nothing happened; he had used up all his flares getting away from the red F-22. He rolled and dived, and somehow the missile missed. The GRIMM were still on him—one was, Cardin corrected himself, as he saw one vanish in an explosion. The other stayed on the F-15's tail as if it was tied to it. "Bastard's on me tight!" Cardin shouted, in his fear forgetting about his callsign. The Beowolf came closer, and now the fireballs of cannon shells skipped across Cardin's wings.

"Cardin, Jaune! Level out and drag him!"

Sure he was about to die, Cardin did as asked. Then the Beowolf blew up, and Cardin saw the Mirage 2000 sweep past. He'd never seen something so beautiful in his life. "Thanks, Jauney!"

* * *

_Near Viola, Wisconsin_

_1605 Hours Local_

Cinder found herself breathing hard into the oxygen mask. She knew Pyrrha was a good pilot, probably the best at Beacon—besides herself, of course—but already this battle had gone on a little longer than she thought it would, and it needed to end. The Immelmann out of the climb had been a nice touch, but Cinder had outmaneuvered her opponent again, and put the gunsight over the middle of the F-16. "Goodbye, Nikos," she said, and pulled the trigger.

As the first round left the 25 millimeter gun in the Raptor's starboard side, the speedbrakes on either side of the F-16's tail suddenly split open, and then it seemed to disappear out of her gunsight as Pyrrha did another turn. Cinder overshot, and worse, lost sight of her opponent. She strained against her harness, dipping the wing, trying to see where Pyrrha went, but she was gone—and Cinder had a feeling where she was. She dived for the forest below, and finally spotted the F-16: behind the twin, canted tails of the Raptor.

Pyrrha had pulled in her speedbrakes and accelerated, thankful her trick had worked, and knowing the measure of her opponent now. Often, a fighter pilot's personality could be seen in how they flew: Yang was aggressive to a fault, Blake liked to hang back, Sage Ayana loved the speed his F-104 could give him. Cinder was something of a bully, Pyrrha had noticed back at Beacon, and if she wasn't as bad as Cardin Winchester, her attitude showed up in the way she flew: Cinder liked to crowd her opponents. It also made her prone to overshooting—and now, finally, Pyrrha had the shot she'd been angling for since the beginning of the combat, an eternal three minutes ago. A Sidewinder shot from her right wingtip and guided towards the Raptor.

Then Cinder showed her mastery of her craft. The F-22, already barely above the trees, suddenly turned hard, dropping flares; the Sidewinder, confused by the flares, the heat from the ground below, and the F-22's ducted exhausts, missed and blew up in the forest. Worse, the Raptor was vectoring around again, forcing Pyrrha into the overshoot.

Pyrrha climbed, hating the fact that she had to, but hitting the ground was not going to win the battle either. She quickly glanced behind, knowing the Raptor was dropping in behind her, but saw Cinder was not closing in this time: she'd learned. Pyrrha turned, rolled and dived, leaving flares in her wake.

* * *

"God _dammit!"_ Cinder shouted, as her Sidewinder went merrily away, chasing a flare. She threw the Raptor to one side, trying to follow Pyrrha into the dive. This time she wasn't going to overshoot, at least.

To her horror, she saw the F-16 come out of its dive, seem to skid in midair, and fire a Sidewinder at her head-on. Cinder's eyes widened in terror, and her hand pulled the stick back and she climbed hard. She felt the detonation of the Sidewinder; her hasty reaction had saved her. _How is she_ doing _this?_ Cinder screamed silently. _She's not human!_

For the first time in her life, Cinder Fall wondered if she was going to lose. The F-16 accelerated after her into the climb, closing for the kill.

* * *

_Near Tomah, Wisconsin_

_1605 Hours Local_

Sun Wukong led Sun Flight into the swarm of GRIMM. The flight split up; there were simply so many bandits that it would be impossible to keep flight integrity in a furball like this. The GRIMM broke up as well, as the drones chose their own targets. Sun looked forward out of the windscreen, as an Ursa came right at him.

Sun smiled. "Okay, buddy, what's on your mind?" He kept on course. A sentient opponent would have broken away, but no one knew if the GRIMM had a self-preservation algorithm. Nonetheless, Sun held his Ching Kuo for as long as he dared, then fired a Sidewinder and dived underneath as the Ursa opened fire. A single Sidewinder was normally not enough to destroy an Ursa outright, but this one struck the GRIMM right in the nose and blew it apart.

"Sage here, going in!" Sun rolled out and saw the F-104 streak past the GRIMM, moisture shockwaves erupting for a moment. Sage ran up the F-104 to twice the speed of sound and fired both of his Sparrows at the Wyvern, keeping his radar on the huge GRIMM as the distance closed in seconds. Both Sparrows hit, and fire and smoke erupted from the Wyvern's leading edge. Sage let out a war whoop as his supersonic shockwave buffeted even the Wyvern, and was gone to the west. It would take awhile for him to slow down and turn around, but he had hit and done the first real damage to the main target.

Sun laughed as he saw Sage score his hits. He looked for more targets, and fastened on the tail of a Beowolf. As he lined up to fire, it suddenly burst into flame and went down in a terminal dive. He saw a Mirage go by, wearing the two shades of gray of the Egyptian Air Force: Nadir Shiko. "Nadir, splash one!" she called out exuberantly. The Mirage pulled up, and suddenly it was on fire. " _Allah akhbar!"_ she yelled in Arabic, then switched back to English for the Fighter Pilot's Prayer: "Oh shit!"

"Nadir, you're on fire!" Sun yelled. "Get out of it!" He saw the Beowulf that had hit her; it had come in behind both of them. Sun cursed himself for not watching the sky around them; it could be him on fire. "Get out of it!" he repeated. As the Mirage stalled, Nadir ejected. Sun opened his speedbrake and slowed, forcing the Beowulf to overshoot, and dispatched it with a Sidewinder. A beeper filled the airwaves for a second, then was shut off almost immediately: Nadir had survived the ejection, though she had escaped into a sky alive with missile trails, gunfire, aircraft, and GRIMM.

* * *

Coco lost all three of her flight in the merge, the flight going to all angles, but there was no time to call them back together. She only had Sidewinders loaded, but that was enough.

Ever since Coco had climbed into Emerald's Mirage F.1 back at Beacon, her attention had been drawn to a red button in the upper left side of the instrument panel. It was unmarked, but it was surrounded by cross-hatched red and orange paint. Coco knew the Mirage better than any lover, and that button was not there on any Mirage F.1 she'd ever flown. Now seemed like as good time as any to see what it did. Hoping it wasn't some sort of self-destruct, which would be slightly embarrassing, she punched the button.

Nothing happened. Coco shrugged and spotted a Beowulf trying to get in behind Reese's Hunter, which was going straight for the Wyvern. Her Sidewinders might not do much, but the Hunter's quad heavy cannon were a different story. Coco slid in behind the Beowulf, checked her mirrors to clear her tail, and saw an Ursa go past. She got ready to break, but the Ursa continued on, looking for a target elsewhere. Her RWR was silent. She quickly blasted the Beowulf off Reese's tail—kill number 15, she made a mental note—and edged ahead of the Hunter. "Reese, Coco. Let me go in first, due some flak suppression."

"Thanks, Coco!"

The Mirage closed in on the Wyvern. There were at least four turrets on her flight path that she could see, but none turned in her direction. _Ah ha! I knew it!_ That's _why I never saw Emerald behind me in the exercise! It's some sort of radar jamming device!_ She took advantage of it, whatever technology it was, and strafed the Wyvern, knocking out a few of the turrets with her cannon. Reese did the same, getting a few more, pounding the giant GRIMM with her own guns.

The radar jammer wasn't infallible, however. As Coco climbed, rolled out over the Wyvern, then dived down for another run, no less than four Beowolves attached themselves to her. Their missiles went wide, unable to "see" the Mirage, but that just made the GRIMM close in with their guns. She couldn't see Reese anywhere. "Coco here. I got four on my ass."

"Coco, Velvet. I'm on your Beowolves."

Coco came out of her dive at full speed, abandoning her run on the Wyvern, trying to get away. Then she saw the Jaguar. Velvet blew away one Beowulf with a Sidewinder, then a second as the formation scattered. One turned back into her, firing its cannon, but the Faunus simply evaded the shells, and then the Beowulf was on its back, burning as the Jaguar's cannon chopped through it. A fourth tried to reacquire Coco, only to be hit in a 90-degree deflection shot with yet another Sidewinder from Velvet, and finally she dispatched a fifth with her last shot. Coco's mouth dropped open. Velvet had five kills going into this fight; she'd just doubled her score in less than two minutes. _"Lionheart!"_ Velvet shouted as she swept past her last opponent, unable to resist punching a fist in the air.

Then Coco saw the Ursa coming in behind the Jaguar. The fighter wobbled as a cannon shell punched through the wing. "Velvet, break left! Ursa!" Coco yelled. The Jaguar pulled hard left, but the Ursa followed her through the turn. Coco was out of position, coming out of the climb she'd gone into to evade the GRIMM.

A smoke trail shot under the Mirage and blew the wing off the Ursa. It went into a spiral and disappeared into the woods below.

"Thank you, whoever that was," Velvet called out.

"Velvet, Weiss. You're welcome." They saw the Typhoon join the fight, then the red-trimmed F-16. Ruby Flight—what was left of it—had arrived.

And still the Wyvern flew on, making a slight turn to the southeast. Beacon was only fifteen miles away.


	85. Fire in the Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Beacon ends. In war, there is always sacrifice.

_Near Oakdale, Wisconsin_

_1610 Hours Local_

Nora Valkyrie hated to admit to herself, but she was having a grand old time.

Her A-10 was not designed for dogfighting: it was designed to kill tanks and ground-based GRIMM. It was slow, though at low level quite maneuverable, but the Warthog was simply no fighter. That was fine with Nora. She'd broken off from Juniper Flight and gotten down in the weeds, flying just above the treetops. GRIMM that dived away from the main dogfight suddenly found themselves ambushed. Nora's A-10 had been loaded at Beacon with four Sidewinders and two 20 millimeter gunpods; she'd expended the missiles for three kills.

But that was the small fry. As the Wyvern overtook her, Nora was going for the big one. She hadn't fired the titanic GAU-8 30mm gatling cannon she literally sat on, and no A-10 pilot thought a day was complete without tearing something apart with the gun. As the shadow of the huge GRIMM passed over her, Nora grinned. "Fe fi fo fum!" Then she hauled the stick back and climbed.

Though it did not seem like it, the Wyvern had been damaged. One of the systems that was hit was some of its detection gear, and it did not noticed the A-10 until it climbed, moving out of the radar's ground clutter. Turrets irised open and began firing at Nora.

Ren had somehow managed to keep an eye on Nora and still fight the battle around him. He'd gotten two, and managed to flush some of the GRIMM towards his girlfriend. Now he saw her in the shadow of the Wyvern, beginning her run. "Nora, Ren, watch it! Heavy fire!" He rolled his J-10 over and dived.

"No shit!" Nora yelled back, but she was through: the safest place in the battle right now was just below the Wyvern, where its ventral turrets could not bear. She braced herself and opened fire with the 30mm. The heavy, depleted uranium rounds pounded the Wyvern, breaching armor and knocking out a brace of turrets. She had to take her finger off the trigger for a moment, dive a little, then climb again and march more rounds down the GRIMM's length.

The Wyvern's electronic brain recognized that this enemy was its greatest threat. Two Ursai suddenly broke away from pursuing Reese Chloris' Hunter and dived beneath the Wyvern to attack Nora. She saw the first one coming towards her, turned into the attack, and used her gunpods this time. The Ursa exploded under the hail of shells. The second one, however, got in behind her. Nora dived and twisted away. She could ignore a Beowulf's small cannon, but the Ursa armed a heavier weapon almost equal to her GAU-8. She ducked as two shells skimmed over her canopy, and tried a break, but the Ursai was in a good position.

It also didn't notice Ren. He rolled in behind the Ursa. His remaining Sidewinder growled, but he couldn't be sure if it was tracking the Ursa or the A-10. "Nora, Ren. I've got your bandit. Break right on three. Two. One. Now."

The A-10 snaprolled to the right, and Ren fired. The Sidewinder tracked perfectly and hit the GRIMM, which shuddered; he finished it off with the cannon. Ren climbed, gave Nora a quick check, and climbed back into the fight.

"Ren, Nora. I'm making a run on the Wyvern," Jaune radioed. "Cover me?" He made it a question, which for some reason Ren found to be highly amusing.

"We're with you, boss! Nora's in!" Nora climbed and rolled in, this time on the top of the Wyvern. Her run this time was across its buried fuselage, where the cockpit would be if the GRIMM was piloted. Sparks and flames shot back from it as she came off her run. "Nora's off, north to south!"

"Jaune's in," Jaune called out. "Cover me, Ren!"

"Following you down," Ren replied. They were too close for missiles, but the heavier cannon on the Mirage and the J-10—though not as devastating as Nora's—were still effective. The Wyvern, reacting with the digital equivalent of panic, rolled its upper turrets around and opened fire. Its fire control had been damaged by Nora's run, so instead of leading its attackers, it fired wildly. Jaune was missed entirely, but the sheer amount of gunfire meant that someone was going to be hit.

That someone was Ren. The J-10 was hammered from nose to tail, and Ren gasped as he felt something hit him in the leg. He climbed hard, jinking to throw off any more fire, but the J-10's movements were slow.

"Ren!" Nora screamed; she'd seen the J-10 get hit, and saw him climb away, trailing smoke. "Ren!" She climbed to get alongside him.

"I'm…okay…" he gritted out. He checked his instrument panel. There were a number of warning lights on, but no fire. He reached into his survival vest with one hand, still flying with the right, and somehow got a bandage out. The blood was soaking through his flight suit.

Nora could hear the pain in his voice, and saw the hole in the canopy. One canard was a ragged hunk of metal, and there were holes throughout the aircraft and wings. She rose up a little more as they leveled out, trying to see if Ren himself was hurt. So concerned was Nora for her lover that she did not pay attention to the sky around her.

The Wyvern was still tracking her, and dispatched another Ursa and two Beowolves to kill the A-10. "Ren, Nora!" Jaune warned. "Check six, GRIMM!" He locked onto the trailing Beowolf and destroyed it with his last missile, but the other two got a clean run at the rest of Juniper Flight. Ren heard the warning, dropped the bandage, and broke left and down, but Nora was too slow. The Beowolf went after Ren, but the Ursa's cannon chopped into the A-10. One engine flamed and came apart, a flap tore away from the starboard wing, and two more shells hit around the cockpit. The heavy armored bathtub that surrounded the cockpit saved Nora's life, but the A-10 staggered. She coughed as she breathed smoke through the oxygen mask, and dived; her onboard oxygen system had been hit. The Ursa turned back for another run, while Ren had to level out or lose the wings. The Beowulf came back for the kill as Jaune hit the afterburner, trying to get in close enough to use his guns.

Then the Beowulf vanished in an explosion. A second later, so did the Ursa.

"Ren, Nora. You're clear. Sorry I'm late." Blake Belladonna flew past Juniper, _Gambol Shroud's_ wings raked back.

* * *

Qrow dipped the wing of his F-117. The ground below and behind the Wyvern was dotted with burning remains—aircraft and GRIMM. Luckily, it was far more of the latter than the former. The Wyvern had launched yet more Beowolves, but even it seemed to have exhausted what it had, and fewer and fewer GRIMM were still operational.

That was the good news. The bad news was that nothing seemed to be able to stop the Wyvern. It was holed in places, and there was thin smoke curling behind it, but it was inexorably heading towards Beacon. Assuming it would even stop there. Beacon's defenders were simply running out of ammunition.

"Regency, Crow 13. Have you heard from Beacon?" he radioed the AWACS. "Is the evac complete?"

"Crow 13, Regency. Relay from Jehovah." _Ironwood,_ Qrow thought. "Base personnel are mostly evacuated. Jehovah advises that there is a major traffic jam south of the base at Mauston through Wisconsin Dells."

"Fuck," Qrow said, without keying the radio. GRIMM were programmed to attack any large concentration of people; no one knew exactly how the drones knew, though it was suspected it was through simple infrared detection: a lot of people gave off a lot of heat. A lot of _scared_ people gave off even more heat. Qrow had seen the turrets on the Wyvern: after it got done razing Beacon, assuming that was its actual target, it would tear into the people fleeing south. And after that? Chicago and Milwaukee lay beyond. By then, the reinforcements from Ellsworth and Sioux Falls would be there—they were charging hard from the east—but Qrow wondered if even that would be enough.

"Crow 13, Beacon." Qrow hadn't expected to hear anything else from Beacon Tower; the tower crew had long since been ordered to evacuate. Then he recognized the voice. "Oz?"

"The same. I'm in the tower. Tally-ho on the Wyvern."

"Oz, you'd better get clear," Qrow warned. "We can't stop this SOB."

"I can. All Beacon aircraft, this is Captain Ozpin in the clear. Break off the attack on the Wyvern and retreat to ten miles, I say again, one-zero miles from Beacon. Authentication code is April, time is 2110 hours Zulu."

"Oz—"

"Crow 13, all Beacon elements, that is an order. Ozpin out."

His mouth dry, Qrow knew what Ozpin was going to do. "Oz, no! Don't do it!" As the aircraft broke away from the Wyvern, following Ozpin's orders, Qrow climbed and headed for Beacon.

* * *

"Ren, Nora, this is Jaune. You okay? You gonna make it?"

Nora coughed, but now that she was lower, she could take off her mask. "Dammit! Twice!" She checked the controls. Other than the tendency to pull towards the dead engine, she was still flying. "I'm tactical." She punched off the gunpods; no point in keeping them now.

"Ren here. I'm hit, but I'll survive." Somehow, managing to fly the airplane at the same time, he found the bandage near the throttle and got it over his leg. It wasn't perfect, but at least he wasn't going to bleed to death now. He hoped. He checked his navigation display. "Suggest we divert to La Crosse."

"Roger that."

Ren heard the tone of Jaune's voice. "Jaune. Go after her." They all knew who Ren referred to.

"Wilco." Jaune's Mirage 2000 turned hard to the south, and engaged its afterburner.

* * *

Ruby flew up next to Weiss. Somehow, despite being on one engine, Weiss had bagged three GRIMM. Ruby had only managed one, despite firing three missiles; another she'd put into the Wyvern, for all the good that had done. Her cannon was empty as well. She still had one AMRAAM left. "You doing okay, Weiss?"

"I'm good. I'll need to divert to La Crosse as well."

Ruby spotted the Mirage going south. "Jaune, Ruby. What's up?"

"Pyrrha's fighting Cinder. I'm on my way."

Ruby checked her fuel. It was still good. "Jaune, Ruby. Joining up." He did not acknowledge, continuing to streak away. She looked over at Weiss, who pointed south. Ruby nodded and headed out after Jaune.

"Ruby, Blake, hold on—" Blake called out.

"No time!" Ruby yelled back.

* * *

_Near Hillsboro, Wisconsin_

_1610 Hours Local_

Pyrrha could feel the sweat pouring down her sides and back, and her breaths in her mask were ragged. The skid had put an incredible strain on her aircraft and her body, and in theory was more than the Fighting Falcon airframe could handle. But there were always things a pilot could do that the designers claimed wasn't possible.

As she climbed to follow Cinder, Pyrrha knew she'd rattled her opponent. Cinder's actions were not panicky, but it was clear that the other woman was now thinking more about survival and getting away, not her mission or killing Pyrrha. She'd gotten into Cinder's head, and Pyrrha intended to stay there.

She briefly considered edging backwards a bit, dropping some speed and letting Cinder get into AMRAAM parameters, but that would give her opponent too much room. Pyrrha was out of Sidewinders; this was going to have to be done with the gun. She throttled up: the F-16 was so light that it was one of the few aircraft that could accelerate in a climb. The gunsight crept onto the broad back of the Raptor, and Pyrrha let it creep further upwards: she would lead Cinder, open fire in front of her, let her enemy fly into a hail of cannon shells. If one should kill Cinder Fall, that was the fortunes of war, and for the first time since Crete, Pyrrha felt no regret over killing someone.

* * *

Cinder swore that she could feel the gunsight crawling up her back, knowing she was seconds from death, that Pyrrha Nikos was going to kill her. There was one chance left. Cinder pulled the stick as far back as it would go, dropped her speed nearly to idle, and vectored the F-22's thrust upwards.

The effect was the same as a car suddenly slamming on its brakes. The Raptor flipped backwards, rolling within its own length, falling back towards Pyrrha and risking both their deaths in a midair collision. Cinder fought down nausea as bile rose in her throat, and was pressed back in her seat—but when the F-22 ceased its tumbling, it was now behind the F-16, its exhaust half-filling her windscreen. Cinder's finger tightened on the trigger.

* * *

"Oh my God!" Pyrrha shouted, and barely dodged the F-22, rolling aside. In a split-second of horror, she'd forgotten the Raptor could do that. She flung the F-16 to one side, trying to dodge the attack that was coming.

She was a fraction too late. The 25mm cannon shells tore through _Milo's_ engine and left wing before Pyrrha's break caused the rest to miss, but it was enough.

Pyrrha heard her engine die, and the aircraft began to shudder and rattle as the wingtip separated from the F-16. The stall warning screamed in her ears and fire lights came on. The horizon slipped past and the Wisconsin forest filled her canopy. There was the briefest of thoughts, first of Jaune, then of riding the aircraft down. But that made no sense: _Milo_ was dead, but she was alive, and unhurt: she could fight again.

"So much for the Invincible Girl," she sighed, braced herself, and pulled the ejection handle. The canopy separated, flying backwards to smash itself against the tail, and then Pyrrha felt rather than saw herself leave the aircraft. It was a clean ejection, mainly because the F-16 was no longer going particularly fast, and she rode the seat a few thousand feet before it automatically separated. Her parachute opened above her, and Pyrrha quickly checked herself. Her limbs were intact and her back felt fine, so there had been no spinal compression or flail wounds. She watched sadly as her beloved _Milo_ fell into the woods and exploded.

Then she looked up. The F-22 was coming back around.

* * *

Cinder got her breath back, did a quick circle to ensure the aircraft hadn't been damaged, then saw Pyrrha's parachute. She thought for a moment: Pyrrha Nikos had been a fine opponent, the best she'd ever faced, and the chivalrous thing to do might be a quick flypast, a salute to an honorable enemy.

But Cinder Fall was not chivalrous. That had been burned out of her a long time ago. Pyrrha Nikos was too dangerous to live. She had been chosen to be Amber's successor, and that alone made her a threat. She felt a pang of sorrow, but Cinder swung around and centered the gunsight on the little dot under the parachute. "It's unfortunate you were promised a power that was never truly yours," Cinder sighed. She glanced at the little black box on her right wrist. "But take comfort in knowing I'm going to use it in ways you never imagined."

Pyrrha saw the F-22 getting bigger, its nose pointed directly at her. She had the wild thought of drawing her Beretta and taking a shot at it, but there was no point in it. She was going to die. She smiled at her own death. It made sense. She'd killed the air pirates in their parachutes over Crete, and now she would share their fate. Karma.

"Do you believe in destiny?" Her words to Jaune came to her lips. She did not close her eyes. Pyrrha faced her demise head on and waited for the cannon shell to end her life.

Then suddenly the F-22 broke away, sparks flying from its wing, fragments falling away from it as it dived away. A Mirage 2000, resplendent in blue and gray, roared past, cannons blazing.

" _Jaune?!"_ Pyrrha exclaimed.

* * *

_Near Mauston, Wisconsin_

_1610 Hours Local_

James Ironwood held Glynda Goodwitch's hand. It was cold and limp. IV lines ran to her arms, pumping blood in, and an oxygen mask lay over her face. Her skin was waxy. He looked up at the medic, who already knew the question. He shrugged.

The flap to the tent came open, admitting Major Jacob Gagnon. "General? You'd better come listen to this."

Ironwood gave Goodwitch's hand a squeeze, and he left the aid tent. It had been set up by a National Guard unit coming up from Wisconsin Dells, and the wounded in the hospital at Beacon had been transferred here. A landing zone had been established in the woods, and as Ironwood followed Gagnon, he saw a UH-60 there, rotors turning, as a stretcher was brought out of the helicopter. A flash of blond hair and a flight suit: it was Yang Xiao Long. Two medics held IV bottles above her as well, and the four stretcher bearers ran towards the tent. Then they were gone, and Ironwood continued on after Gagnon.

The area around them was chaos. This had always been a chokepoint for Interstate 90 as long as Ironwood had visited Beacon, where the woods and the low ridges shoved the four-lane interstate towards the Wisconsin River gorge. Now all four lanes were choked with people trying to get away. News of the Wyvern, even sight of it in the distance, had spread quickly; in its wake came panic. No traffic was moving on the interstate. Ironwood had ordered all military personnel except his remaining security police off the road, setting up a new command post in the woods. Even as he watched, people were starting to get out of their cars and run down the median, dragging luggage and children behind them, ignoring the security forces' calls to stay calm.

Ironwood ducked into the command post, a tent set up between four armored personnel carriers. A soldier he didn't recognize was at the radio, and handed a headset to Ironwood. "It's on the air channel, General," the radioman explained.

Ironwood listened and his eyes widened. "Oh my God." He reached across the radioman and switched the set to transmit. "Ozpin! This is Ironwood! I know what you're doing and I'm ordering you not to!" There was only static. "Come in, dammit! Ozpin!" When there was still no reply, he slammed the headset down and ran out of the command post, immediately looking to the north.

His cellphone began to buzz. Ironwood pulled it out of his pocket, looking at it strangely; he'd put it in his pocket just before the White Fang had attacked, and completely forgotten it was there. The number was unlisted. He opened the phone. "Hello?"

"James."

"Ozpin! Thank God. Where are you?"

"At the tower." Ozpin sounded matter-of-fact. "Listen. How far away are the refugees?"

"Most of them have made it to Mauston, but there's still a few stragglers—"

"And the base?"

"Completely evacuated. I thought you were already out. Someone even broke out Emerald Sustrai; I think it was one of Cinder—"

"That doesn't matter now." Ozpin's voice became tired. "Remember what I said about the Fall Maiden, James? Where I have control of it? Well, I didn't tell you the good part." He chuckled. "I have to hook it to a satellite communications rig. My cane can't actually talk to the Maiden satellite. It just so happens that the only one close is at Beacon Tower." Ironwood heard Ozpin doing something in the background. "Uplink should be complete about the same time the Wyvern is overhead."

"Oz, no. No. You're going to call in the strike on top of yourself. You can't. For the love of God, you can't."

"For the love of God, I have to, James."

Ironwood felt the unfamiliar sting of tears. "Ozpin, please…"

"I'm sorry, James. Thank you for being my friend. Please find Oscar. Tell him about me, all right? Tell him I'm proud of him."

"I can't—"

"You will. Goodbye, James." The line clicked off.

* * *

_Near Hillsboro, Wisconsin_

_1615 Hours Local_

Jaune stayed on the F-22 as it reversed its turn and stayed at low level. He'd hurt the Raptor—it wasn't trailing smoke, but it was definitely wounded. He fired again, thought he saw some strikes, and then suddenly the fighter went straight and level and slowed. He shed some speed himself and got in behind it; it remained in level flight. He didn't think he'd hit the cockpit, but maybe he had. It was even starting to lose a little altitude. His cannon were empty anyway, so he selected a Sidewinder—his last—and lined up.

His finger had tightened on the trigger when suddenly the Raptor broke to one side, so fast it left him in shock for a moment. Jaune twisted around in his seat, and broke left.

* * *

Cinder saw the Mirage overshoot and smiled. _Jaune Arc. Pyrrha taught you well, but not good enough._ As he broke left, she simply turned back into him, noticed the controls of the F-22 were a bit sluggish, and fired an AMRAAM. She was a bit close for the shot, but it was all she had left, besides a few cannon shells, and she was saving those for Pyrrha.

Jaune cut the turn tighter, hearing the RWR screaming that he was locked on. He strained against gravity, urging _Crocea Mors_ to turn harder. He dropped chaff, but the AMRAAM ignored it. The missile cut across the turn.

"Dammit, Pyrrha," Jaune said. The missile impacted behind the cockpit, and the Mirage vanished in an explosion.

* * *

" _JAUNE!"_ Pyrrha screamed. She strained to see if there was an ejection, or a parachute, or anything. There was nothing. " _Oh, God, no!"_

The Raptor came around again. This time Pyrrha did pull her pistol and began firing it, even though it was far out of range. She cried, screaming unintelligibly, no longer caring if she died. "Kill me, you bitch!" Pyrrha howled. " _Kill me!_ " Then she saw the wink of sunlight off a canopy above and to the left. A quick look—it was another F-16, one with red wingtips. "Ruby, _no!_ She'll kill you too!"

* * *

Ruby saw the fireball that had been Jaune Arc. The F-22 came around in a lazy turn, the nose pointed at the parachute. Ruby frantically looked for options, but there weren't any. Her cannon was empty; she was too close for her one remaining missile, and by the time she got into the parameters to use the AMRAAM, Pyrrha would be dead.

She had one weapon left: her airplane.

"Sorry, Crescent," she said, and dived, aiming for the Raptor. It was an impossible attempt, to ram the other fighter—the Raptor was bigger and flying slow, but it was almost like trying to hit a bullet with another bullet. And yet, Ruby knew she could. Her eyesight narrowed to the gray cruciform shape of the F-22.

* * *

Cinder did a few twitches of the stick as she turned and climbed away from Jaune Arc's funeral pyre. There was definitely something wrong with her aircraft. It was now even more sluggish, and a quick look behind showed that her tails and tailplanes had been hit with cannon fire. Jaune had gotten his shots in after all. Still, it was flyable as long as she didn't need to do any sudden maneuvering—and killing a mostly stationary target like Pyrrha Nikos wouldn't require any.

Then Cinder caught movement at three o'clock high. It was a F-16, out of the sun, growing bigger and bigger. Cinder pushed the stick to one side to break into it, but the Raptor merely went into a gentle turn, as if she was landing at Beacon on a cloudless, easy day.

It was then that Cinder realized the F-16 wasn't stopping.

The collision was soundless, the noise muffled by her helmet and the canopy, most of the noise left behind her. Ruby wasn't suicidal, and had aimed her strike to lead with _Crescent Rose's_ left wingtip. The F-16's wing crashed through the junction of the F-22's right wing with the fuselage. _Crescent Rose's_ wing was sheared off, tearing away to take off most of the tail, while the Raptor's right wing folded upwards and over the fighter's back. Both instantly went into spins, while the F-22 burst into flames.

Cinder knew she had to bail out. She braced herself, cursing, and ejected. The force of ejecting from a spinning aircraft caused her left arm to come off the side of the seat and hit the canopy frame, snapping it instantly. Then the F-22 exploded as the fire reached its remaining missiles, and the fireball roared after Cinder. She almost cleared it, but as the seat separated, the flames reached her. The nomex flight suit protected most of her, but the fire found other fuel—the rubber hose and mask, and Cinder's hair that hung out of one side of her helmet.

Cinder felt pure agony as the flames crawled under the helmet, caught the mask on fire, and scorched her skin. She reached up with her good arm and tore the mask away, but her skin was blistering, she could see the flames in her left eye, she must not scream, she told herself, she must not scream—

But then it was too much, and Cinder _did_ scream. And the fire found something else to burn.

* * *

Ruby let her fighter do two revolutions, waiting for the horizon and the forest below stop swapping places, and pulled the ejection handle. Nothing happened. Mouth dry, she pulled again. This time she felt the seat fire, but as she ejected, the seat hit the canopy, which hadn't separated clean from the fuselage. Whether or not Ruby had succeeded she never knew, because the world went suddenly and completely black.

* * *

_Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin_

_1620 Hours_

The Wyvern seemed to slow as it reached Wyvern, barely doing 150 miles an hour. Ozpin watched it from the windows of the tower, and drank one last cup of coffee. "So that's what you were working on, Salem. That's your big stick. Well, I have one too, my love."

He set the mug down reluctantly, sat down in the deserted control tower, and picked up his cane with his left hand. In his right, he took out the dogeared picture of Salem. "We didn't have to do this, Salem," he sighed. "It never should've come to this. I still love you. Oddly enough, I think you still love me." The tower grew dark as the Wyvern blotted out the sun. Ozpin kissed the picture, looked up, and smiled.

And hit the red button on the cane.

Seventy miles above Alabama, retrothrusters fired on the Fall Maiden. It was a rather plain looking satellite, for all the world resembling a communications satellite, which was the intent. While on its trip over eastern Africa, it had gotten the arming notification. Small explosive bolts blew off the nose of the satellite, exposing the long tungsten rods. As it slowed, its own targeting sensors came online, and received the coordinates it was meant to open fire on. The Maiden rotated downwards, and as it reached the southern border of Wisconsin, lined up on the coordinates, and fired five times, its preprogrammed engagement package.

The five rods, each one twenty feet long, were ejected into the atmosphere, where a combination of their own propulsion from the satellite and gravity accelerated the rods to fifteen times the speed of sound. Their passage through the atmosphere left brief lines of white-hot trails behind them. They were still acclerating when they hit the Wyvern ten seconds later.

All five lanced through the giant GRIMM, tearing through armor, fuel cells, and ammunition like tissue paper before burying themselves across Joint Base Beacon. There was no explosion from the rods, as they carried no warhead, but just their passage sent tons of earth rocketing into the air like a meteor strike.

Explosions ran the length of the Wyvern as the magazines touched off and spread. The GRIMM seemed to hesitate, it shuddered and dipped downwards, then went up in an explosion so powerful that shockwaves flattened buildings around the base, caused trees to snap off at their base three miles away, and was enough to buffet and send people to their knees as far as Ironwood's position at Mauston. Qrow dived hard to escape the shockwave, and barely succeeded. The remains of the Wyvern crashed into Beacon; it would burn for five days until nothing was left.

The body of Captain Oscar Ozpin, United States Navy, was never found.


	86. Cold Dark World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruby wakes up in the hospital, to find herself in a world that's changed. Yang is crippled. Blake and Weiss are gone. Pyrrha's alive...but is that a good thing or not?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is by far the most depressing chapter I've written for this fanfic. But our heroines just got hit pretty bad, and they're not just going to spring back. Not even Ruby. Just remember, though: it's always darkest before the dawn.

_Eisenhower Armed Forces Medical Center_

_Augusta, Georgia, United States of Canada_

_18 May 2001_

Ruby Rose had the oddest sensation: she could actually feel her body coming awake. It started at her toes and fingers, which twitched a little, then spread up her body, returning feeling to her brain before it reached her eyes. She slowly opened them. Something felt nice and fluffy under her head, warm over her body, and soft beneath it, but there was an antiseptic smell she couldn't quite place.

As her eyes came open and she looked around, she saw an unfamiliar ceiling and walls, then the hospital bed she was in, and the machines next to it that gave her vital signs. An IV bag was placed over her and tubes snaked down to her arm, and under the covers to places she really didn't want to think about. Then her eyes focused on the other person in the room. "Dad?"

Taiyang Xiao Long was sprawled in a chair, asleep. Though retired from the USAF now, he still wore his blond hair short. He was also still proud that, despite pushing forty, he still wore the same size as he had while on active duty—if anything, hard work around the farm at Patch had added bulk and muscle to him. Yet Ruby knew that her father was one of the most gentle men in the world, a single dad who had managed to raise two rough-and-tumble daughters after one wife had deserted him, and another had disappeared. "Dad?" Ruby repeated. Her throat was dry, scratchy.

Tai stirred, blinked, then sat up straight so fast he nearly fell out of the chair. "Ruby?" He got out of the chair and crossed to her side, taking her hands in his. "Oh God, Ruby!"

She smiled weakly. "Hey, Daddy."

"My little girl." He kissed her forehead. Ruby sat up a little straighter, and felt pain encircle her head like a band. "Ow." As he scooted his chair up to the bedside, she looked around again. "Where am I?"

"Eisenhower Military Hospital in Georgia. It was as close as I could get you and Yang to home-among other reasons."

"Oh, that makes…" Her voice trailed off as she realized what he'd said. "Wait, why's Yang here?"

Tai hesitated, then asked her, "What do you remember last, Ruby?"

Ruby knew she was being deflected, but went along with it for now. "Oh, well…let's see…after the big dogfight with the Wyvern, we got the order from Ozpin to get away from it for some reason…figured maybe they were going to hit it with cruise missiles or something. Anyway, then I got there right after that Cinder chick had shot down Pyrrha and Jaune…she was going to gun Pyrrha in her 'chute, and all I had left was an AMRAAM. So I, uh…" Ruby laughed. "I rammed her, Dad. Don't know how I managed to do it, but I did. Took the wing off my bird…didn't see what it did to her. The last thing I remember is ejecting, and then everything went kinda dark. And here I am." She winced as a little tendril of pain made its way up her back. "I've been out for awhile, huh?"

"Four days. Combat SAR found you hanging from a tree. They think you hit the canopy on the way out."

Ruby whistled softly. "Pulled a Goose, huh? How come I'm not dead?"

"You probably just grazed it. Your helmet took the worst of it; leastways you've got a huge gash in it. You had a severe concussion and a cracked skull. Just a hairline crack, though. No swelling, so you don't have any brain damage—no more than you did already, anyway."

"Oh, _thanks,_ Dad," Ruby grumped, though she was smiling.

He gently ruffled her hair. "Good thing you inherited having a thick skull from me and your mom."

"True." She folded her arms and looked at her father. "So. What's going on with Yang?"

"Yang." Tai sighed, and couldn't meet his youngest daughter's eyes. "Well, she's still alive."

"That's a plus. What's the problem, Dad? You almost sound like Yang being alive is a bad thing."

Tai did finally face her. "She lost her arm, Ruby. Her right arm, at the elbow. That Marine of yours—Blake—she said that it got taken off by a twenty mike-mike shell. Yang nearly bled out. Luckily, Blake landed her F-14 somehow and got a tourniquet on her before the Army picked her up." He wiped his eyes. "She almost died. Came really close to dying from shock. We had her transferred here in the same medevac as you. She'll make a full recovery, but…" Tai bit his lip. "She's not the same, Ruby."

"Can I see her?"

"I'll ask the doc." He got up, but Ruby grabbed his hand. "Blake and Weiss?" she asked.

Tai sighed again. "They're both fine, but…they're gone. Weiss got recalled back to Germany. Maybe it's only temporary; the Germans want to know what the hell happened at Beacon. Blake…I don't know where she is. She's disappeared. She made sure that you and Yang got on the medevac at Madison, but after that…I don't know."

Ruby closed her eyes. At least her flight was alive. That was something, at least. "What about Pyrrha and Jaune? Are they okay?" She saw the look on his face and gripped his hand harder. "Tell me, Dad. Give it to me straight."

"I wouldn't do it any other way, Ruby." Tai took a breath. "Jaune Arc is dead. He wasn't able to get out. I guess they recovered some…some remains…"

Ruby covered her eyes with her free hand. She couldn't believe it, she didn't _want_ to believe it. Jaune Arc. Gawky, loveable, silly Jaune. Her first friend at Vytal Flag. He couldn't be dead. You didn't kill people like Jaune. No, he was probably wandering around the woods of Wisconsin aimlessly somewhere. Ruby nodded to herself. Her dad was wrong. Jaune was alive.

"Pyrrha Nikos is all right," Tai continued. "In fact, she's here. It made more sense to quarantine all of you here—"

"Quarantine? We get infected with something?" Ruby interrupted.

"For the court of inquiry. The shit hit the fan, Ruby. President Shawcross had to admit the US has orbital weapons. The world's outraged. Congress is thinking about impeaching him—don't think that'll go anywhere, but that tells you the shitstorm the Battle of Beacon stirred up. Secretary of Defense Terasoma resigned, and Congress intends to rake him over the coals when they have their investigation. There's a good portion of Wisconsin that's just a disaster area. Beacon's gone. There's nothing left."

Ruby's eyes widened. "Oh shit! Zwei!"

Tai winked and smiled. "Zwei's okay. He's at home—Mrs. Mallari is housesitting right now. Just before Jim Ironwood left the base, Zwei came running towards him, barking his head off. The General grabbed him and put him in a Humvee. Zwei found Yang in the hospital and wouldn't leave either one of you until you got here. He'd still be here if the hospital allowed it. He's a good doggie."

"Whew." At least Zwei was all right. "But if Beacon—"

Now it was Tai who got a bit misty-eyed. "Ozpin's dead, Ruby. That Wyvern thing fell on top of the control tower. There's nothing left of either of them." He patted her hand. "That's enough for now, kiddo. Let me check with the docs if it's okay for you to move around and see Yang. And Pyrrha, too."

* * *

_Air Test and Evaluation Squadron 4 (VX-4) Headquarters_

_Naval Air Station Patuxent River, Maryland, United States of Canada_

_18 May 2001_

"Captain Blake Belladonna, reporting as ordered, sir." Blake came to attention the required number of paces from the commander's desk. She was dressed in crisp khakis, the creases so sharp she could cut someone with them. Her medals and wings were aligned perfectly. The only thing that wasn't regulation was the ribbon in her hair.

Commander Nolan Malikov motioned her to a seat. "Good afternoon, Captain." Blake took a seat, and sat practically at attention. Malikov seemed nervous, she thought. He ran his hands through his short hair, over the small horns curving back from his forehead, then shuffled the papers in front of him. "Sorry you were confined to quarters after you got here, Captain Belladonna. Truth to tell, we weren't sure what to do with you."

"I understand, Commander." After the destruction of Beacon, Blake had landed at La Crosse just long enough to take on fuel. Then she'd flown the short hop to Madison, to make sure both Ruby Rose and Yang Xiao Long were loaded onto the medical evacuation aircraft. Both of her friends were unconscious; both had looked dead. She knew they weren't, but their appearance was enough to frighten her. Once that was done, she had gotten in _Gambol Shroud_ and flown east, unsure of what to do or where to go. Since technically she was still assigned to VX-4, she had landed at Patuxent River, on the edge of the Maryland Dead Zone, and reported to Commander Malikov. Since Malikov hadn't been sure what Blake's status was now, he confined her to quarters and called for instructions. In the confusion after the fall of Beacon, it had apparently taken this long to find out what to do with her.

"Well, here's the deal," Malikov began. "You've been ordered to report to Eisenhower Medical Center at Augusta, Georgia. There's going to be a joint inquiry into what happened at Beacon." He tapped the papers on his desk; she saw it was the report she had written. While confined, Blake had nothing better to do, and writing helped keep the self-loathing at bay. For awhile, anyway.

Blake could not help but swallow nervously. _I can't go there,_ she thought in terror. _I can't see them…I can't see Yang. It's my fault she's there. And if I go there, what's to stop Adam from coming after us there?_ No one knew what had happened after Beacon. Moonslice had last been seen heading northwest, and though the news had reported the White Fang attack, and confirmed the death of Roman Torchwick—the one good thing that had come out of the entire debacle—there had been nothing on Sienna Khan or anyone else. That meant that the White Fang not captured or killed at Beacon had made a clean getaway, which meant that every moment she spent anywhere endangered someone else. But what choice did she have? To disobey a direct order was to get court-martialed. She would never fly again. And how long before she simply ran back to the White Fang, just as Adam predicted?

"At least, that was the order I was given." Blake looked up at Malikov's strange words. To her surprise, he looked as confused as she was. He picked up the phone and punched a button. "She's here, ma'am."

A few moments later, the door opened, admitting a short woman Blake thought looked dimly familiar; she'd seen her at Beacon. "Good afternoon, Captain—Commander," she said to them as she closed the door. She then walked over to the desk, excused herself as she reached over and picked up Blake's orders to Georgia, pulled out a lighter, and set the orders on fire. She waited as both pilots stared at her, then dropped the burning paper into the empty trashcan just before it would've burned her fingers. She then reached into the interior of her sharply-cut business suit and pulled out a new set of papers, handing them to Blake. "Request for leave approved, Captain."

Blake took the papers from her as if in a trance, and read them. It approved Captain Blake Belladonna, USMC, attached VX-4 Patuxent River, for one month's leave to Menagerie. "But…but I didn't…" she stammered.

"Captain, have we met?" the short woman asked.

"You look a little familiar, but no, I don't believe so."

"Very well. My name is Rissa Arashikaze. I am the Deputy Director of Intelligence for the Central Intelligence Agency. You may have heard of us." Arashikaze reached over and tapped the report. "I read this after I got on base yesterday. It's a very honest and quite superb report. And it will be more than enough for the court of inquiry. Which won't go very far, I suspect. None of you pilots are responsible for what happened, and in fact all of you did quite well under the circumstances. The court of inquiry needs a scapegoat, and they will find it in Captain Ozpin. It's not fair, but it tidies everything up quite nicely. There's no reason for you to be there." She raised an eyebrow at Blake. "Unless you want to be."

"N-no," Blake replied. She knew the fear showed on her face and hated herself for it.

"Then take a month's leave. See your family. Get some perspective. And when you're ready, Captain, let me know. I'll have work for you." Arashikaze perched herself on one corner of the desk. "Unless you were planning on turning those in." She pointed to the wings of gold pinned over Blake's left breast.

Blake looked down at the wings. She had considered it. The Navy and the Marines allowed it. A pilot couldn't hack it for one reason or another, and all they had to do was walk into their commanding officer's office, and turn in their wings. They would never fly again. The Navy accepted the loss of millions of dollars worth of training; if a pilot was that rattled, that unable to perform their duties, then they were a danger to themselves and everyone around them.

But she wanted to fly. "No," she said firmly.

"Good. That would be a waste." Arashikaze got up and faced Malikov. "Please make the arrangements, Commander. If there's any trouble, just call this number and I'll smooth everything over." She handed him a card, with only a telephone number on it. Arashikaze walked towards the door. "Oh, Commander?"

Malikov looked up. He had been clearly blindsided by the whole thing, even more than Blake. "Yes, Director?"

"Make sure she takes the Tomcat with her. It may be needed." She paused at the door. "One more thing, Commander Malikov—Captain Belladonna." Arashikaze smiled. "I was never here." She opened the door and closed it, and was gone.

"What just happened?" Blake said aloud.

Malikov spread his hands helplessly. "I don't know, Captain, but she walked in here yesterday, just like that, off a C-130 from Europe. Next thing I know, I'm getting a call from the Chief of Naval Operations telling me to do whatever she says." He shrugged. "Oh well. Guess you're going on leave."

"Looks that way." She ran her fingers over the paper.

"Menagerie. You know, I've never been there?" Malikov tapped his horns. "Oh well. All right." He pulled a form out of his desk. "I'll have the yeoman type this up for you. I was going to have you leave _Gambol Shroud_ here, but since the CIA wants you to take it with you, I guess you'll take it with you. Can't have it parked at the Menagerie airport, though, so…Holy Loch is close. That's the nearest naval base we have there." Blake nodded. The US Navy's association with the naval base at Holy Loch predated the Cuban Missile Crisis; somehow, it had escaped destruction during the Third World War. The US government leased the base from Menagerie.

"Okay," Malikov said, scratching away with an official US Government issue ballpoint pen, "so you'll fly to Holy Loch. We'll detach you to there while you're on leave. Don't be surprised if you get called away to go talk to the Brits about the hologram system; supposedly they want to put it on one of their Typhoons. We'll fax you orders if that happens."

"I won't have the fuel to make it transatlantic," Blake pointed out.

"I know." Malikov stopped writing, grabbed a folder, and flipped through it. "Let's see…what does 2nd Fleet have up there right now…ah, here we go." He went back to the form. "Fly out to the _Reagan._ She's two days out of Norfolk, headed for the Northern Patrol Barrier. You can fly off her to Holy Loch. Sound good?"

"I guess." She took the order forms from the commander. "Sir," she added.

He looked at her. "Blake, listen. You said in your report that you were fighting the White Fang's field commander. I've heard of Adam Taurus. Didn't realize he was a fighter pilot as well as a terrorist, but whatever. You lost some friends up there. Beacon's gone. We haven't been hit this hard since Cuba. You probably need some time off. Go hit the beach, or look for the Loch Ness Monster, or whatever it is you folks do up there. See you in a month." He paused. "And be careful. As you know, the fucking White Fang operates legally there."

_Only too well._ She gathered up the papers, stood to attention, then executed a parade-ground about face and left the office.

Malikov sat back down, stared at the door for awhile, then picked up the phone. "Yeoman Rand? I'll need you to type up those orders for Captain Belladonna. After you've done that, I need the number to personnel. I'm still waiting to hear what's happened to my sister."

* * *

_Eisenhower Medical Center_

_Augusta, Georgia, United States of Canada_

_18 May 2001_

"Careful, now." Tai helped Ruby down the hall. She let him guide her arm, though it was more for his peace of mind than hers. Except for a slight bit of dizziness and a lot of hunger, she felt pretty good. The doctors had come in, checked her over, shined lights into her eyes, and removed tubes from rather embarrassing places. She still had the IV attached, but at least she had on a robe and her old pajama bottoms—brought from home by Tai—instead of the open-backed hospital robe that left her feeling more naked than if she _was_ naked.

They stopped outside Yang's room. Tai dropped his voice. "Ruby, I'm going to warn you again—"

"She's my sister, Dad. She'll be okay." Ruby gently took her arm away from Tai, hung onto the IV stand, and walked into the room.

Yang was awake. She lay in the bed, no tubes attached to her, though the same machines were present. She was staring out the window. There wasn't a lot to see in that direction. "Hey," Ruby said.

Her sister turned, and Ruby barely suppressed a gasp. Yang's lilac eyes were dead. There was no emotion, no anything there at all. "Hey, Rubes," she said, in a flat voice.

Ruby trundled in. Tai nodded to her, and stayed outside, giving his daughters room. Ruby went over and sat on the bed. It was then she saw the arm.

She'd expected to see Yang's right sleeve to be empty, pinned up like she'd seen in movies or old Civil War photographs. Instead, the sleeve was normal. What was not was the arm. It was a streamlined limb of silver metal and black plastic. It was no crude prosthetic or hook, but an actual arm, and yet not one.

Yang saw her staring at it. "You like it? I'm sort of attached to it." A tiny smile, just a flash of the old Yang. With effort, she lifted it with her shoulder. It remained stretched out, the fingers limp. "Turns out they've got quite the artificial limb clinic here. I woke up yesterday and there it was. Can't move it very well, but the doctors say I will someday. Just like my old arm." She let the arm drop. "Courtesy of General Ironwood. They attached it while I was out. Lucky fucking me."

"Yang, that's…that's pretty awesome," Ruby said. "You'll get that working in no time. We'll have you back in the cockpit!"

"Who cares."

Ruby shrank back, as if Yang had transformed into a monster. "What?"

Yang stared at her sister, and now there was some life in those eyes, even if it was anger. "It's all gone, Ruby. Beacon, Penny…Jaune…and this." She gestured at the arm with her flesh-and-blood one. "Did Dad tell you? About Jaune?"

Ruby nodded. "And it's bullshit, Yang. He got out. I know he did."

"You saw him?" Yang asked.

"He got out," Ruby insisted, and her tone brooked no argument. "Dad told me about Weiss and Blake—"

"Blake _ran!"_ Yang suddenly exploded. "She fucking _ran!"_

"Dad said she flew down to Madison when we were flown out—"

Yang cut her off. "Yeah? Where the fuck is she now, Ruby? She's my wingman—wingmate, what the fuck ever. Weiss didn't have a choice—the Luftwaffe ordered her back to Germany. Probably her dad was behind that, but Weissy's tough; she'll come back. But Blake fucking _ran._ Just like that cocksucking bastard of an ex-boyfriend of hers, who did _that_ to me—" She half-raised the arm again. "Adam said she'd run. I heard it over the radio. And by God, he was fucking right." Yang seemed drained by the explosion, and leaned back against her pillows. "She should be here, Rubes. She should be here with her flight. But she's hauled ass somewhere. Maybe even back to the White Fang—"

"Now that's enough." Yang blinked at the steel in her sister's voice. "You're depressed, Yang. I get it." She cut off Yang's retort. "Okay, I don't get it. But maybe the Marines or the Navy have got her squirreled away somewhere. Maybe she _can't_ come back, Yang! Like Weiss!"

Yang sighed. "She ran, Ruby. I'm sorry. But I know Blake, better than you. And she was always afraid she'd run away again. And wherever she is, I guarantee you she's running. Okay, not back to the White Fang. But she's still running."

"There has to be a reason," Ruby began.

"No, there doesn't." Yang looked away. "Sometimes bad things just happen, Ruby."

Ruby nodded. The two sisters were silent for a long moment. "What do we do now?" Ruby asked softly.

"You can do whatever you want." Yang's moroseness had returned. She went back to staring at the window. "I'm just going to lie here."

"Yang, you—"

"Just leave me alone, Ruby."

Ruby slowly got up, stood straight for a moment to let the brief dizziness pass, and then walked towards the door. "Yang?" She looked at her sister. "I love you, Yang." Then she left, shutting the door behind her.

Tears welled up and ran down Yang's face. "I love you too, sis," she whispered. Then something caught her eye. Using her good arm, she raised the artificial one.

The fingers had curled into a fist.

* * *

"I'm sorry," Tai said sadly. "She's…she just needs time."

"Yeah." Ruby wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "Where's Pyrrha?"

Tai blew out a breath. "Hoo boy. You sure? She's in pretty bad shape too."

"She got hurt?"

"Not physically." Tai took her arm—without protest this time—and led Ruby further down the hall. Four doors down, they came to another room. There was a guard on it. "I gotta warn you," Tai said. "This might be worse than Yang." He nodded to the guard. "This is my daughter, Lieutenant Rose."

The guard checked a clipboard. "Oh yes. She's on the list. But not you, sir," the guard told Tai.

"I'll wait."

The guard opened the door, and she went inside. She expected a padded room, or Pyrrha chained to a wall. In actuality, it was the same basic hospital room as her own, and Yang's. Pyrrha was hooked up to no tubes, or even machines. Instead, she lay on a bed, in a hospital robe. It was then that Ruby saw there were no other fixtures in the room, and the restraints on the bed. Pyrrha was not in them, but they were there.

As for Pyrrha Nikos herself, Ruby wondered if the other girl was alive or dead. She lay motionless in the bed, like Yang, staring aimlessly out the window. Unlike Yang, her hair was a mess, her eyes sunk in deep hollows, her skin paler than usual. "Is it time, doctor?" she mumbled.

"Pyrrha?" Ruby asked. A part of her refused to believe this was Pyrrha at all.

One green eye turned in her direction. "Ruby?" The voice was just a bit less listless. Her head turned. "Ruby?"

Ruby smiled. "Hey, Pyrrha."

"Oh, Ruby." Pyrrha slowly levered herself up to a sitting position and held out her arms. Ruby gave a start at the bandages on both wrists. Pyrrha noticed and smiled back. "Oh, that. I'm…better now. Yes. It was bad, at first." Ruby got closer, and let the other woman hug her. Her skin was clammy. "How are you?" Pyrrha asked.

"Oh, I'm okay. Got my bell rung, that's all. Little skull fracture, but I got a thick skull!" Ruby laughed, but it was artificial. She blushed. Pyrrha's robe had fallen open. She wore nothing beneath it. Neither did she seem to notice. "Uh, Pyr—" Ruby finally pointed.

Pyrrha shrugged. "We're both girls, Ruby. Does it matter?" But she did draw the robe shut, after Ruby looked more uncomfortable. She looked at Ruby, and took her friend's hands in her own. "Ren and Nora are okay. Ren got some shrapnel in his leg, but he'll be all right."

"Well, that's great, Pyrrha—"

"And Jaune's dead. Yes. Cinder shot him down. No parachute." Pyrrha held up a finger, and reached onto the small nightstand next to the bed. There were no drawers on it, but on the top was a chain and a single dogtag. "They found this in the wreckage. Amazing how it didn't get burned or anything." She dropped it into Ruby's hand. It was Jaune's dogtag, amazingly intact. "They found his watch, too, but they wouldn't let me see it. Yes. I suppose it was badly damaged."

Ruby was suddenly seized with the impulse to run away from the room, as fast as she could. Pyrrha's voice was matter-of-fact. She wasn't acting like she was discussing her best friend and possible lover's death; she was speaking like they were discussing the weather. Ruby looked at her. There was a faint smile on the redhead's lips, almost as if she was waiting for Ruby to approve of her words.

Then she stared back at the dogtag, and there was no more denial of reality. Jaune Arc was dead. Ozpin was dead. Yang was crippled. Weiss was gone. Blake was gone. And how many others were dead that she'd known? Penny. Ciel. Maybe Glynda; no one had told her yet.

Ruby cradled the dogtag, tried to hold the tears back, but they burst like a failed dam. She bent over, weeping, bawling, unable to stop. It was all over. It was all gone. She felt a hand on her back. "It's all right," Pyrrha said. "I'm sorry, Ruby. I didn't mean to upset you so. But it's all right, you see. Jaune is still here. Yes. I see him every night. He's so beautiful, Ruby, like the angel he is now, and I wish I could fly with him, but the doctors, they won't allow me to, even though I tried—"

" _Stop it!"_ Ruby shouted, shoving Pyrrha away. She threw the dogtag against the wall. "Stop it, Pyrrha!"

Pyrrha looked confused, like a dog that had offended its owner but didn't know why. "I'm sorry," she repeated.

Ruby got up, and nearly fell. She had to leave. Her father had been right. It was worse than Yang: Pyrrha, poor Pyrrha, was insane. She tried to say something, couldn't, and then fled. Pyrrha watched her go, then leaned back against the pillows. She stared at the dogtag on the floor. "It's okay," she whispered. "It's going to be okay. Right, Jaune?"


	87. Broken Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weiss arrives home, but it's far from a good homecoming. Jacques Schnee has plans for Weiss, and not even Winter can help.
> 
> Meanwhile, back at the hospital, Juniper Flight--what's left of it--has come to help Pyrrha. Will it help Pyrrha, or finish her off?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another pretty feels chapter here, but that's not too surprising. Remember when Ruby hears Pyrrha's message to Jaune on his phone?

_Schnee Manor (Herrenchiemsee)_

_Near Munich, Federal Republic of Germany_

_19 May 2001_

Weiss Schnee stepped off the helicopter, ducking underneath the rotor blades as she did so. There was a temptation to jump into them—but only for a moment. Schnees didn't commit suicide. Drank themselves to death, possibly, but not suicide. Such things were histrionic and would ruin the sidewalk.

She walked down the long path towards the manor, past the immaculately trimmed hedges that seemed to hem her in even more. There was another temptation to vault those hedges and run for it, but although no guards followed her, where would she go? She was on an island, and there was nowhere to run.

Finding Klein Sieben waiting for her was no surprise, and despite the rage that was building up inside of Weiss, it was, at least, good to see him. What was a surprise was that Winter was waiting as well at the top of the staircase. Like Weiss, she was wearing her formal Luftwaffe uniform, with a lot of silver braid and medals. "Good morning, Weiss," Klein said with a small bow.

Despite the desire to lash out at anything living, Weiss controlled herself. Klein was a good man, more of a father than her own father, and he deserved none of her wrath. "Hello, Klein." She hugged him, which took the butler back a little. Klein had always warned the girls and Whitley about public displays of affection; he was their servant, after all. The warning had always been ignored.

Then she turned to Winter. As usual, her sister wore her normal expression—that of faint irritation—but Weiss thought she detected a bit of rage beneath her sister's icy exterior as well. She wondered who Winter was angry at. Just in case it was her, Weiss came to attention and gave a formal salute. "Oberst Schnee." It felt strange to be speaking only German again, after so long speaking only English.

"Oberleutnant Schnee." Winter returned the salute with the same amount of crispness. She looked at Klein. "Klein, would you mind leaving us?"

"Certainly, ma'am." He smiled at Weiss. "I will have coffee and Black Forest cake waiting for you in your room."

Weiss' stomach rumbled, reminding her that she'd had very little to eat in the past two days. Her mouth watered as well: Klein wasn't just the chief butler, he was also a baker, one that any high-class German restaurant would've cheerfully killed for. "Thank you, Klein."

Klein gave the small bow again, and trundled off. Winter and Weiss entered the palace and began walking towards their father's office, down the hall of mirrors. Once Weiss had seen this hall as a place of wonder, a statement of what the Schnee family stood for. Now she saw it as pretentious, garish, and stolen. "How was the flight over?" Winter asked, startling Weiss.

"Took two days to replace the engine at La Crosse. Then another to get to Furstenfeldbruck. And when I get there, I'm treated like a prisoner, confined to quarters until I got orders to report here. I don't even know what's happened."

Winter didn't reply for a moment. "Ruby Flight is all right…mostly. General Ironwood notified me last night that Ruby has woken up. She had a concussion, but she will almost certainly make a full recovery. Yang lost an arm—"

"I know. Nora told me," Weiss interrupted.

"—but she has been fitted with an artificial one, and is recovering."

"And Blake?"

Winter shook her head. "Unknown."

"But you'll tell me as soon as you know?"

Winter glanced at her and dropped her voice. "Not here." Then she raised it again. "Juniper Flight is also recovering, but…" A pause, and a slight misstep in Winter's stride. No one else would've noticed it, but Weiss did; for her sister, it was a violent display of emotion. "Jaune Arc is dead."

"I know," Weiss sighed. She'd learned it at La Crosse, when they'd brought Pyrrha and Ruby in on the rescue helicopter. Pyrrha had said nothing, merely stared into space, broken. Ruby was unconscious. That night, Weiss had cried, cried harder than she had in years, for the man—boy, really—who had flirted with her, who she'd blackmailed, who she'd used, but then grew to respect and like. Once or twice, she'd even regretted not pursuing him, though she was happy he'd ended up with Pyrrha. He was gone now, like so many others she'd known at Beacon, and the survivors would have to somehow pick up the pieces. "Do you know…how Pyrrha is?"

"Recovering," was all Winter said, but there was a lot in the way she said the single word, letting her sister know that Pyrrha Nikos was far from recovering.

They finished walking down the long hallway, and took the stairs to Jacques Schnee's office. Weiss felt her insides clench, and once more fought the instinct to run. But the Luftwaffe had ordered her here, and Schnees obeyed orders. Winter opened the door, and followed her sister inside.

Jacques Schnee sat behind the desk, writing. He looked up, and to Weiss' surprise, smiled. He stood, adjusted his tie— _a clip-on,_ Weiss snickered to herself; Jacques Schnee would never figure out how to tie a tie—and came around the desk. "Hello, Weiss."

"Father." Weiss thought about coming to attention, but instead slouched a little. She came to attention for people she respected. Her father didn't seem to notice, though Winter frowned a little.

"Welcome home." He actually hugged her, another surprise, and then stepped back. Between her service with the Luftwaffe and Vytal Flag, it had almost been a year since she had seen him. He hadn't changed—his hair was still slicked back in the style of an earlier generation, both hair and mustache gone completely gray, the white suit immaculate, his blue eyes still piercing. Jacques could be intimidating when he wished to be, but now he was being affectionate. That told Weiss she was in considerable trouble. "You look well." He motioned to the seats. "Please, please."

"I'd rather stand, Father. I don't anticipate being here long."

Jacques looked down and let out a long sigh. "I'd hoped that we could get off on the right foot, Weiss, but I suppose that's not going to happen."

Weiss softened her voice a little. "It could. I'm happy to stay a few days—" that was a lie "—but after that I must return to duty. The Americans will hold a court of inquiry, and I will need to fly—"

Jacques cut her off with a wave of a hand. "That will not be necessary. You have already written a formal report, yes?" He returned her nod, then went back around the desk and sat. "The US government tells me that will suffice. The Americans are in no place to demand anything." He looked at Winter. "You haven't told her?"

"I thought you might want the honor of doing that yourself, Father." Winter's voice fairly dripped with sarcasm.

"Very well." Jacques tapped a manila folder on his desk. "Weiss, you are being promoted to Hauptmann. Overdue, in my opinion." Weiss steeled herself for what was coming next; poison was often coated in honey. "And you will be my liasion to the Luftwaffe. Schnee GmbH will be ramping up DUST production, and it will be your job to ensure that the fighting squadrons of our air force are successfully integrating the software. DUST has been one of the few success stories of this debacle." It was the first time he had referenced Beacon, however obliquely.

"I see," Weiss said. "And I suppose that means I will be working mainly from Herrencheimsee." She used the old term, deliberately to irk him.

"Yes," Jacques replied, with steel in his voice.

"And this will be a nonflying assignment?"

"Again, yes." Jacques spread his hands. "Weiss, please. You have done your duty to the Fatherland. You are being promoted, you will be awarded medals—twelve victories, I understand? That makes you one of the highest scoring pilots of the Luftwaffe. There is no need for you to do anything further! Please, stay here and relax. Help your family. Learn how to run the company."

Weiss raised an eyebrow. "I thought I was no longer the heiress."

Jacques waved that away as well. "You are again. I admit I lost my temper with you, but that is behind us."

"And this is an order from the Luftwaffe?" Weiss asked crisply.

"Yes." Weiss looked at Winter, who nodded.

"How long is this assignment?"

"Six months," Winter said, before Jacques could open his mouth. "And then you will return to active duty, flying _Myrtenaster_."

" _Possibly_ return," Jacques snapped. He took a moment to calm himself. "Whitley will be happy to see you, Weiss. As will your mother."

"Yes. Where is Mother?"

Jacques found other things to look at in her office. "She is…taking a week or two at Baden-Baden." Weiss translated that in her head: Willow Schnee was drying out at the spa again. "She will be back in a day or two."

"I see." Weiss put her hands behind her back. "So I am a prisoner, then."

"What? Don't be ridiculous!" Jacques laughed. "You are never a prisoner, Weiss. I'm sure when your mother gets back, we will head into Munich for shopping—"

"Then I can leave? Right now?" Weiss knew it was useless, but she had to try. "Speaking of leave, I have several months accumulated. I will take that, right now. Lufthansa has a flight from Munich to Atlanta tonight. I would like to see my friends again, Father."

"You…" Jacques massaged his forehead. "No, you can't leave. By order of the German government. Weiss, the Bundestag has its own inquiries it wants to make about what happened at Beacon."

"Mm. And how many politicians did you bribe to get that order?"

Jacques came out of his chair. "That is _enough,_ Weiss. You are ordered to stay here by the Luftwaffe, by the German government, and yes, by me. I am your father, which is something you tend to forget. And if you try to leave German soil, you will be declared absent without leave, be arrested, and then you will truly be a prisoner. And broken." Seeing the defiance in her eyes, he pointed to the door. "Enough. You have your orders, Weiss."

Weiss snapped to attention so hard the leather of her boots audibly smacked. She executed a salute that would have made any drill sergeant faint with its excellence. " _Jawohl."_ Then she turned on one heel and marched out the door.

Jacques sat, then glared at Winter. "Do you have something to add?"

"Only this, Father." Winter smiled. "How long do you think you can keep her here?"

* * *

_Eisenhower Medical Center_

_Augusta, Georgia, United States of Canada_

_19 May 2001_

Ruby looked up from her book as Lie Ren and Nora Valkyrie walked into the hospital room. "Hey!" She slid off the bed, ran over to them, and hugged them both tightly. "God, it's so good to see you!"

Nora returned the hug with equal enthusiasm, and to Ruby's pleasant surprise, so did Ren. "You look well," he said.

Ruby snorted. "Hell, I'm good to go. I could check out today, but they won't let me." She walked back to the bed and sat down, while Nora and Ren took the chairs. "How's the leg, Ren?"

"Good." He flexed it in front of him. "The shrapnel wasn't too deep. It looked worse than it was." Nora leaned over on him all the same. Their hands found each other; Ruby wondered if they were even aware doing so. "Any problems?"

"I told you I was fine." At the disbelief in Ren's expression, Ruby shrugged. "Okay, fine. They haven't cleared me back to duty yet. In fact, they want me to take a few weeks off. Dad's supposed to drive us back up to Patch tomorrow."

"Then Yang's okay to travel?" Nora asked hopefully.

"Yeah, but…" Ruby checked the door. It was closed. "Guys…Yang's…different. She's not all happy and nutty like normal. She's just…" She shrugged again, helplessly. "She just sits in bed and stares out the window. They gave her an artificial arm, but she acts like it's not even there."

"Losing an actual piece of yourself means you lose more than that," Ren observed. "She'll be all right, Ruby. She just needs some time."

"I guess." Ruby toyed with her blankets. "You guys are here to see Pyrrha, right?"

"Yep," Nora said. Ruby looked up. Even with that short response, there was anger in Nora's voice.

"She's in bad shape," Ruby warned. "Worse than Yang." She couldn't suppress a shudder, remembering the day before. "She's gone crazy, guys. I think she's just…she's just lost it. And I don't think she's coming back this time."

Ren got to his feet. "Leave that to us. We have a plan."

"She's been seeing some psych docs—"

"They aren't her friends." Nora got up as well.

"You want me to come with?" Ruby said.

"Not this time," Ren replied. "I'm afraid this is something Juniper has to do on our own. Sorry, Ruby." Nora jumped to Ruby's bedside, kissed her on the forehead, and followed Ren out the door.

"Good luck!" Ruby called after them.

* * *

Ren found Pyrrha sitting listlessly on her bed. In her fingers, she twirled Jaune's dogtag through her fingers, flipping it down, then back up again, not even looking at it; she stared out the window, a faint smile on her face. She turned slowly as they walked in, and her smile widened. "Ren! Where's Nora?"

"Getting some lunch for us," he told her.

She held up the dogtag. "Now Juniper is all together again."

Ren smiled back. "We are indeed. Nora and I were wondering if you might join us on the roof. It's a beautiful day, Pyrrha. And I brought you a surprise. From Jaune."

Pyrrha blinked. "From Jaune? But…" Then she nodded. "Yes, of course." Her smile faded. "But…the doctors. They don't want me to go up on the roof. I went up there a few days ago to try and fly away, but they stopped me."

"We've cleared it with them," Ren lied. He and Nora were taking a gigantic chance. It flew in the face of psychiatry and logic, and if they were wrong, not only might Pyrrha probably end her days in a mental institution, she might just get her wish to fly away. Straight down, several stories. But Ren and Nora had talked it over, and agreed it was worth a try.

He helped Pyrrha up, and as she put on her slippers, couldn't help but wrinkle his nose a little; Pyrrha hadn't bathed in awhile, and he could see stubble on her legs. Her hair was beyond help, filthy, overgrown and tangled. He couldn't meet her eyes. Their vivid green was washed out, dead, and her smile never reached them. He put out a steadying hand, and Pyrrha took it gently. He then led her out into the hallway, made sure the coast was clear, and quickly led his friend to the stairwell. They went up a flight of stairs, and onto the roof.

He hadn't lied about it being a beautiful day. Spring had reached Georgia, and the air was alive with the smell of pine trees and the noise of june bugs. It was also humid, but that was something all three of them were used to; Beacon had actually felt a little too cold, most of the time. Nora was waiting, pulling out from a bag a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken, Original Recipe. Pyrrha actually clapped her hands in delight, something that brought a smile to Ren's face, a genuine one: they'd noticed Pyrrha's weakness for American fast food—one reason she had jogged every morning. It had also been Jaune's favorite, which was why Nora had chosen it.

Nora spread out a blanket on the roof, and they all sat around it, careful to leave one side open for Jaune. Nora was careful to set out a plate for their friend, as if he was there; Pyrrha nodded approvingly, the dogtag clutched in her hand. Pyrrha reached for a drumstick, but Ren held up a hand. "Your gift, first. From Jaune."

Pyrrha nodded, and Ren reached into his pocket. "Oh," she said, giving a little start. It was Jaune's cell phone. "Where did you find it?"

"There's something you didn't know," Ren said. "Before every mission, whether it was combat or just training, Jaune started giving me his cell. I gave him mine. We had recorded messages on it, for our families…and friends." He glanced at Nora, who fought down a sniffle. "If something happened. We started doing it after the big fight we had with the GRIMM in the first week. Before we ran across the tarmac at Beacon, while we were suiting up, he handed me his phone, and I handed him mine." Ren had not bothered to ask the graves registration people if anyone had recovered his phone. There had been a message on there, for Nora. But that was all right. "After Jaune went down—" Ren was careful not to say _killed_ "—I listened to the recording. I wanted to make sure that there was nothing on there he didn't want his parents to hear. But he had—has—a message for you."

"Oh." Pyrrha flipped open the phone. Jaune had never bothered to change the picture; it showed a lighthouse. She searched through the buttons until she found his messages. There was only one; she didn't know Ren had erased the others, since Jaune also had never bothered—or didn't know how—to erase various notifications from credit card companies, his bank, and a dentist in Madison. There was just the one now, for her.

"Play it," Nora said. She reached out to take Ren's hand. This was going to be rough. Pyrrha nodded, and hit the button.

"Hey, Pyr!" Jaune's voice made them all jump, and Pyrrha nearly dropped the phone. "Hey, listen. I hope you don't mind that I recorded this in English. My Greek's pretty lousy, and your French…well, it's perfect, like everything else, but if you're listening to this, Ren and Nora are there too, I bet, and they don't speak French. Well, Nora does, but she only knows how to say hors d'ouvres.

"But anyway…look, Ren and I have been exchanging cells before we go out on missions. Y'know, just in case. And I've written a letter for my folks, but you…they might not give you a letter, since we're not related or anything." Jaune paused. "Not yet, anyhow. But…heh…maybe soon, huh?"

"Oh God." Pyrrha's eyes filled with tears. Jaune had somehow recorded this only a few days ago, probably when she was out on the mission that had killed Penny. The morning they had made love, they had joked about doing it on a regular basis—and more, what Jaune had laughingly called "authorized ass." It was as close as an engagement as they had ever made.

"Well, maybe I'm just saying that because…well, you know," Jaune was saying. "You know, Pyr…it felt like so much effort just to progress a small amount, when you were training me, all those nights. But I hope I made you proud. I've never met someone so determined to make someone better. I've grown so much since we started training. And I know…this is just the beginning." They could hear the smile in his voice. Then they heard his voice catch, with emotion. "Pyr…I…I…I want you to know that I'm just happy to be part of your life. Somehow, Pyr…I'll always be here for you. And…ah, hell, I'm gonna say it…I love you." Jaune laughed. "Weiss would say I'm a sappy idiot, and she's right. But I do. Anyway, this is a silly message, and if you're listening to it…it probably means Nora found it, and she's playing it to make fun of me. Which I totally deserve for recording some stupid message, like I'm gonna die or something. Yang says only the good die young, so I'm gonna live forever. But anyway…yeah."

The message ended abruptly. Pyrrha stared at the phone, willing it to play more. But that was all. She cradled the phone to her breasts, slowly bent over, and began to cry. Nora was across the tablecloth in an instant, nearly stepping in the mashed potatoes, to hug her friend, and Ren was there too. Pyrrha's weeping became huge, shuddering sobs, and then she threw her head back and wailed, screaming at the top of her lungs. _Let it out,_ Ren thought, unashamedly crying as well, holding both of the women he loved—one as a lover, one as the sister he never had. _Scream, Pyrrha. Jaune deserves it._ And she did. She screamed until she became hoarse, and could only cough and sob. Nora massaged her back, whispering "It's okay, Pyrrha" over and over, her own tears running down her face.

The door to the roof flew open. A security guard and a nurse came out. "What's going on?" she demanded.

Ren looked over his shoulder. "We're holding a wake, miss. Do you mind?"

The nurse hesitated. She saw Pyrrha, and knew the pilot's condition. She took a step forward, then stopped. "All right," she said. "But keep an eye on her."

"That's what we're doing," Ren replied. The nurse nodded, turned to the security guard, and motioned him back through the door. It was breaking protocol and regulations, but the nurse had been around long enough to know that sometimes one had to do that.

After another few minutes, Pyrrha's crying had subsided. Nora and Ren still held her. "He's gone," she croaked. "He really is gone. He hasn't been to see me. I…I was imagining all of that."

"Yes," Ren said simply.

"Jaune will always fly with us," Nora said reassuringly, wiping the tears from her face. "We just can't see him."

"The doctors…they say…I was hallucinating."

Ren touched her cheek. "Pyrrha, I don't know if Jaune's spirit has passed on, or perhaps he is indeed still here with us, and maybe does speak to you. Metaphysics is not my strong suit." He looked at her, with that direct gaze that unsettled people who did not know Lie Ren. "But I do know that Jaune would not want you to be like this. He would not want you to simply exist, or sit in a room crying."

Ren got to his feet, pulling Pyrrha up with him. He pointed to the roof's edge. "If you jump off that roof—and neither Nora nor I will stop you—then you will make a mockery of everything Jaune stood for. You are one of the best pilots in the world, Pyrrha, whichever air force you decide to fly for. Yes, you were shot down—you're not invincible, but you knew that.

"We have lost a battle, Pyrrha. Beacon is gone. Jaune is gone. Ozpin is gone and so are many others of our friends. But we have not lost the war. We have only begun to fight. And we must continue to fight, or it will happen again, and more friends will die."

Pyrrha nodded, remembering Amber and the story of the Maidens. It would happen again. "Yes."

"And if you die," Nora said, "then you've left us behind—me and Ren." She sniffled again pitifully. "We're both orphans, Pyr. Juniper Flight is all the family we've got."

"And let's not forget Ruby Flight," Ren added. "Ruby seems to be all right, but Yang is hurt worse than all of us. Weiss and Blake have disappeared. They need us too." He stepped away from Pyrrha. So did Nora. "But now is your chance, Pyrrha. If you think _that_ —" he motioned to the roof edge once more "—is the quickest way to see Jaune again, then go."

Pyrrha stared at the edge. From here they could see all of Augusta. It was a long way down, ten or twelve stories; death was almost certain. She could be free of all the pain, all the hurt, all the memories of her dead squadron over Crete, all the memories of Jaune Arc. She wasn't sure of an afterlife, and Pyrrha didn't consider herself religious; she had been raised Greek Orthodox, but had turned away after Crete. No God who cared would have allowed that to happen, she had thought. Suicide might be a sin, a mortal one that consigned her to hell forever, but the hell of flame and brimstone couldn't be any worse than the hell she was in now.

But heaven or hell, Pyrrha knew that Jaune would never forgive her if she leapt off the roof. Nora and Ren might not stop her, but they would never forgive her either. And neither would Ruby Flight, or the others, or the dead faces of her squadron that haunted her. None of them would forgive her if she took her own life. And that was a hell far worse than any burning pit.

She was still clasping the phone to her. She closed her eyes, let out a deep sigh, and opened them. "All right." She said at last. Then she handed the phone to Ren, turned, and headed towards the roof door.

"Where are you going?" Nora asked.

"I'll be right back. Please wait for me." Pyrrha left the roof, went down the stairs, nodded to the guard and the nurse that waited on the next landing, and brushed them off when they tried to help. She went into the room, ignored the doctor standing there, then went into the bathroom. She tossed the robe aside, stepped into the shower, and turned on the water full blast. The initial coldness made her gasp, but it warmed soon enough. She scrubbed herself vigorously, then washed her hair. After drying herself, she wrapped the towel around her, and came out of the bathroom. Now two doctors were there, along with the nurse. "Would you mind shaving my legs?" she asked the nurse.

"Sure." The nurse got a razor, and Pyrrha kept her hands in sight as the nurse shaved her legs to the smoothness that Jaune had loved. Pyrrha thanked her, asked for some clothes. They found her some. She thanked all of them, then returned to the roof, flanked by the nurse and the guard, half an hour after she'd left. She let her hair fall free; she'd have to find a circlet somewhere later. The nurse and the guard left, and Pyrrha sat cross-legged. "I don't know about the two of you," she said with a smile, "but I'm famished."

Nora had already polished off two drumsticks, and she filled Pyrrha's plate. Pyrrha dug in. "Mmm. Oh, my. That is _good."_ She downed a third of a Dr. Pepper and smeared a drumstick in coleslaw. "So. What is happening in the world? Have they determined where the Wyvern came from?"

Ren and Nora smiled at each other. There was a long way to go, but Pyrrha Nikos was going to live. For Jaune. For all of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In real life, you don't recover from the level of PTSD Pyrrha is suffering from that quickly, but she's going to be needed in a chapter or two, so I had to move it along a little quicker than probably it should be. She's not "cured" by any stretch. Having dealt with PTSD in friends and family, it takes years, and needless to say, Pyrrha's not out of the woods yet. 
> 
> Two more chapters and this story arc will be done, and we can move on to "Season 4." Thanks for all the great reviews everyone has been giving me!


	88. Don't Stop Believin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yang and Ruby are home, but Yang is still sunk in depression. Tai has some ideas to change that, but before he can put his plan into action, the girls have a visitor: Rissa Arashikaze of the CIA. She has a mission for them.
> 
> Unfortunately, it's the same mission that killed Summer Rose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I need to apologize for Rissa Arashikaze showing up more in this. Although my stock-in-trade is OCs (as anyone who's read my Battletech and Evangelion stories over at FF.net knows), I wanted to avoid them as much as possible in this, to avoid even hinting at a Mary Sue. However, given the nature of this AU, there needs to be someone to give Ruby and Juniper Flights their orders, so Arashikaze fits that bill. Basically, she's there to goose the story in the right direction...and to introduce a little bit of intrigue. After all, it's a trope that you never can quite trust a spymaster...

_The Xiao Long-Rose Residence_

_Patch, North Carolina, United States of Canada_

_22 May 2001_

"Girls! Dinner!" Taiyang Xiao Long called out. He set the steaming plates of grilled cheese sandwiches and egg drop soup out on the table.

"Be right down!" Ruby called from upstairs. There was no response from Yang, but Taiyang was already becoming used to his oldest daughter's morose silence.

He fixed his own plate, paused, and sighed. Their home was a modest one, in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains; the nearest city was Asheville, forty miles to the southwest, and Tai's nearest neighbor was Mrs. Mallari, a half-mile away. Surrounding them were deep woods; behind the house, the terrain climbed to a limestone cliff. He'd built this house soon after he'd married Raven Branwen, when Strike Flight was assigned to Signal, on land left by his mother; after Raven had left him with a newborn baby, Summer Rose had begun visiting to help him. One thing led to another, and then they married as well. Three years after Ruby's birth, Summer had disappeared, leaving him alone to raise two daughters who didn't understand why Mommy was gone.

But they'd made the best of it. After Yang was born, Tai had resigned his commission and took on a job as a flight instructor at Asheville. Some of those years raising the girls had been lean ones, but they got by somehow: sometimes Qrow gave Tai money, and sometimes it just mysteriously appeared in his account; Tai suspected either Ozpin was quietly helping him, or maybe even Raven. He wasn't too proud to take it, though he could've eased their financial situation considerably had he simply accepted Summer's death benefits. He refused, and every year, when a USAF official came to the house to ask if he would change Summer's status from Missing in Action to Killed in Action, he would politely refuse again. Tai realized he was probably an idiot, but he just couldn't do it.

When Yang had graduated and gone off to college to become a fighter pilot, it had gotten only somewhat quieter—but after Ruby had left, it had gotten entirely too quiet. It had just been Tai and Zwei, until Ruby had been assigned to Signal, but even then, she'd only been home once or twice a month. The girls had both promised that, when Vytal Flag ended, they'd take leave and come home for awhile.

Now they were, and things were worse.

"Dad?"

Tai shook himself from his reverie. Ruby was staring at him. He turned and grinned. "Sorry about that, kiddo. Got lost in thought there for a bit. It happens when you get old."

"Gimme a break. You're barely over forty, Dad." Ruby sat down at the table.

"It's not the years, Ruby—"

"—it's the mileage. Yeah, I know." Ruby scooted her chair forward. "We waiting for Yang?"

Tai looked up at the ceiling. "No. You go ahead. I'll take Yang's food to her."

Ruby reluctantly began eating, and Tai picked up the plate and bowl and headed upstairs. The ground floor was a living room, kitchen and guest room that Tai had converted to an office, whereas the upstairs was three bedrooms and a bath. Yang's door was open. He walked in, and was not surprised to see her laying in bed again, flipping through one of Ruby's comic books. She had done nothing but that, aside from calls of nature and a shower, since they'd gotten home the day before. "Hey, pumpkin. Dinner."

"Thanks, Dad." Yang reached out—with her left arm; her right one lay next to her like a dead thing—and pulled a little table close to her. Tai set the food down. "You really should eat dinner with us," he told her.

"I will, Dad," Yang reassured him, though her voice wasn't very reassuring. "I promise. I just…I'm still adjusting, okay?"

"Okay." He leaned over and kissed her forehead. "Need anything, just yell." Yang merely nodded, and Tai left. He went back downstairs. "Be right back, Ruby. Need to grab the mail." Ruby also only nodded, but that was because her mouth was full. He really didn't need to grab the mail, but Yang's morose attitude had reminded him of something.

He stepped off the porch, Zwei at his heels before the corgi broke off to do his business against a tree. Tai walked down the gravel path to the dirt road that led a mile through the woods to the highway. He checked the sky. It had rained that afternoon, but the storm was blowing itself out, picking up its gray skirts and scudding over the mountains. The sun was fighting a successful battle to get through the clouds, promising a beautiful sunset.

Then he saw the car coming down the path. It was USAF blue, and Tai's heart jumped into his throat. It was the wrong time of year for the USAF to ask him about Summer's status, and the solitary official car usually meant someone had died. _Oh God,_ Tai thought, grabbing the mailbox to steady himself, _Qrow._ Qrow Branwen was supposed to fly into Signal that evening and drive up in the morning, but accidents happened, even to the best pilots. He remembered a similar car pulling into the driveway, and disgorging Qrow, Summer's commanding officer, and the base chaplain, to tell him that Summer was gone.

Tai slammed a hand into the mailbox to break the spell. It had been a foolish thought: the car could be one of a hundred things. It could just as easily be orders for Ruby and Yang that the USAF didn't trust to a phone call. He steadied himself as it pulled up in front of him. The passenger side window rolled down, and a short woman he didn't recognize leaned across. "Excuse me!" she called out. "Is this the Xiao Long residence?"

"Xiao Long-Rose, yeah." Tai always insisted that Summer's name not be forgotten.

"Oh, thank God. I've been driving around for the past 20 minutes looking for this place. I'm here to see Lieutenant Ruby Rose and Captain Yang Xiao Long. You must be Taiyang, their father."

"I'd better be. And you are?"

"Rissa Arashikaze. Can I pull into your driveway?"

The name sounded dimly familiar. "Sure." He watched as she pulled in and stopped in front of the garage, then reached into the mailbox, and smiled. A thick package waited there; it had arrived. He pulled it out of the mailbox and met Arashikaze halfway. She was dressed in civilian clothes. "You're Air Force?"

She hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. "Well, I guess I can trust someone who used to be part of Strike Flight with this information. I'm the Deputy Director of Intelligence with the Central Intelligence Agency."

_Oh shit,_ Tai thought. _A spook._ He'd never liked spies. Strike Flight's job caused them to occasionally work with them, usually from the CIA, and he hadn't come away impressed. It had been CIA intelligence that had gotten Summer—made Summer disappear, Tai corrected himself. He wondered if the person who had given those orders now stood in front of him.

"Don't like me, huh?" Arashikaze smiled. He was startled, and realized his emotions must have showed on his face. "That's all right, Mr. Xiao Long. I'm not here to be liked. I just would like a word with your daughters, and I'll be off."

Tai forced himself to be polite; Southern hospitality was not to be denied, even to a spy. "That's all right, Miss Arashikaze. Would you like something to eat? It's grilled cheese and soup, but if you're hungry…"

She didn't respond, but her stomach did, loudly. "Oh, all right. Sure. Thank you. But if I could speak with your daughters first? It's kind of urgent, and I'm afraid I need an answer quite soon."

Tai crossed his arms, consciously making himself a barrier between Arashikaze and his daughters. "My wife had that conversation, about 17 years ago."

"I had nothing to do with that, Mr. Xiao Long."

"Maybe not, but one of your bunch did. If you're going to send my daughters off on some suicide mission, Miss Arashikaze, you can turn your little ass around, get back in your car, and fuck right off."

Arashikaze stared up at him—Tai had at least a foot on her, possibly more—and then nodded. "That's fair. All right, Mr. Xiao Long. I'll tell you. I'm going to _ask_ them if they want to help us find who's behind this. Track down Salem's whereabouts—" she held up a hand as he went red with rage "—by going to Japan. I have a lead there. Not the Sea of Japan, where your wife disappeared, but just Japan. Via Alaska."

_The same route,_ Tai thought. _Aren't these bastards ever going to have enough?_ "And if they say no?"

"Then I get my little ass back in my car, and I fuck right off," Arashikaze answered. "They get orders to their next duty assignment as usual, and nothing more is said anywhere, by anyone." She crossed her arms as well. "Look, Mr. Xiao Long. I don't particularly like doing this. Ozpin, by all rights, should be standing here, not me. But someone has attacked my country, killed a lot of my countrymen, and has caused a great deal of panic that it will take months to recover from. They will hit us again—you know that as well as I do. It so happens that Lieutenant Rose and Captain Xiao Long were already involved, and therefore that means I don't have to let more people I don't know anything about in on a few secrets—secrets that you already know yourself. And yes, I thought they might like a bit of old fashioned revenge." She stepped closer, not intimidated by his height. "Ozpin was my friend too, Mr. Xiao Long. And I lost him. And now I want to kill the fucking bitch who caused it. So this stops happening, and your children—and mine—can grow up without having to worry about the next GRIMM invasion."

Taiyang stared down at her. "Who else have you talked to about this?"

"Lieutenant Valkyrie, Captain Lie, and Major Nikos. They're going regardless…but they would feel better with the half of Ruby Flight that's still in country to help them."

Tai stood resolutely for a few moments, then closed his eyes and stepped out of the way. "All right. You can talk to them."

"Thank you—"

He grabbed her arm as she tried to move past. "Get them killed, Miss Arashikaze, and I will kill _you_ with my own bare hands. Understand?"

She looked down at his hand. It easily fit around her slender bicep. "You've just threatened a high government official."

"And?"

She smiled. "And I don't blame you in the least."

* * *

They went inside. Introductions were made, and Tai served a plate to the CIA woman. She tried to avoid it, but hunger won over other considerations, and she quickly wolfed down the sandwich and the soup. Tai noticed she ate like someone who was used to eating fast and on the run. She finished, covered a belch with her napkin, then asked Tai, "So where is Captain Xiao Long?"

"Yang's upstairs. She's…not feeling well."

"May I speak with her?"

Tai hesitated. His first instinct was to say not just no, but hell no. Tempting with the same mission that had killed her mother was bad enough; he didn't want Yang to do the same thing. _Not both of them_ ran through his head. Then again, the prospect of action just might be enough to jar Yang out of her depression.

Ruby made the decision for him. "Yang's really not up for it, Miss Arashikaze. She's…well, she needs some time. She went through something pretty traumatic. I can tell her later, if you like."

"I suppose that's fine." Arashikaze took a drink of sweet tea, and began. "Lieutenant Rose, I will do something that goes against every word in the CIA instruction manual: I'm going to tell you the truth, direct and ugly. I'll trust that it does not go beyond these walls, though your father already knows most of what I'm going to say.

"You've been briefed that the GRIMM are drones, which they are." Ruby nodded. "What you have not been told is that we actually _do_ know who controls them. Her real name is immaterial, but her codename is Salem, for the witch trials. She has been controlling the GRIMM since they arrived on the scene in the 1960s."

Ruby sat back in her chair. "Holy shit. So there _is_ something controlling them. Who is she?"

Arashikaze folded her hands in front of her. "We don't know everything about her, but she's a former Russian official. It's conventional wisdom that the Soviet Union was completely wiped out in the nuclear exchange of 1962. That is not true. Millions of Russians survived. Some were able to flee. Others were killed by the GRIMM. Some still hold on in pockets of civilization here and there—Leningrad, for instance, and in the Caucasus. But many—millions—simply disappeared. We think they joined Salem, either willingly or not so willingly."

"Then the GRIMM come from Russia?"

"It would be a mistake to blame the GRIMM on a nation that's long dead, or a people who had nothing to do with the war in the first place. The GRIMM attack all humans and Faunus, no matter their nationality. They're remarkably equal in that respect." She smiled grimly. "We've never been able to find where she is, or where the GRIMM are manufactured, or how she controls them, if indeed she does. But oddly enough, the fall of Beacon has given us a clue. We were able to backtrack the Wyvern from when it crossed the Pacific Barrier. It crossed into the Pacific north of Japan. From there, clues point to Siberia." She shrugged, spread her hands. "Of course, Siberia is gigantic, and Salem could be anywhere in there, so we can't exactly call in the B-52s if we don't know where she is."

"I'm not sure that's much of a clue," Tai put in. "There's been suspicion that the GRIMM are coming out of Russia's dead zones for years."

"Very true. But this is different. Salem's always relied on GRIMM hordes before. This time, she had people of a bit more fleshy variety helping her."

"Cinder Fall." Ruby's hands clenched into fists.

"The same."

"But Cinder's dead, right? I mean, I rammed her F-22. No one saw her bail out." Ruby thought of something. "Unless Pyrrha did."

"Major Nikos was already in the trees by the time you rammed the F-22. She didn't see either of you bail out. She only knew you'd survived when the pararescuemen saw you dangling from a tree." Arashikaze finished her tea. "The seat was gone from the F-22, and we found Cinder's parachute. But no body."

"Then she's still alive somewhere."

"We have a policy at the CIA: if you don't identify a body, assume the person you're after is still alive." She looked at Ruby squarely. "Emerald Sustrai and Mercury Black were also never found, and witnesses placed both of them in the confusion when Beacon was evacuated. We have to assume all three are alive. But they give us the clue: they came from somewhere. They were given aliases, fake backstories. Whoever gave them those backstories knows something. Of course, we don't know who that is…but we know someone who might _know_ who that is. Someone quite eager to help us, since it's almost a certainty that Cinder Fall was behind Ruth Lionheart's murder."

"Leonardo Lionheart?" Tai asked.

"Forgive my flair for the dramatic," Rissa admitted. "It's a personal failing of spies."

"Last I heard, old Leo had retired from the RAF." Both women were now looking at him. "We met Leo a few times when Strike Flight was in Europe. He was one of the old gang along with Ironwood, Glynda Goodwitch, and Ozpin."

"I spoke with Air Commodore Lionheart briefly when I was in the UK a few weeks ago. Unfortunately, he's no longer in Britain, so it's not as simple as just sending you across the pond. Officially, he's come out of retirement and accepted a temporary job as air attache to Japan—a favor the RAF did for him, obstensibly because he wants to stay busy so he's not dwelling on an empty house and a family he no longer has." Tai winced at that; he knew the feeling. "While that is undoubtedly part of the reason," Arashikaze continued, "there is another, more important one. You see, Creamer Flight was vetted personally by Lionheart. They were passed on to him. He's tracked down who passed that to him, all the way back to Japan."

"That's a lot of work," Tai said.

"He's had some time on his hands…and a very good reason. Lionheart wants to find the people who murdered his daughter. Ironwood told me you knew about that already, so it's no surprise." Ruby nodded sadly. "He's requested we send him trained Huntsmen and Huntresses. I told him I knew of five that qualify, all of whom knew Ruth Lionheart and would be happy to help."

"Five?" Ruby asked.

"Yourself, your sister, Lieutenant Nora Valkyrie, Captain Lie Ren, and Major Pyrrha Nikos. Major Nikos told me she's more than ready to return to duty. I have my suspicions, but she would be a valuable asset."

"And she wants revenge for Jaune Arc," Tai added.

"Quite." Arashikaze let out a long sigh. "That's the mission, Lieutenant. As a carrot, you'll be assigned a F-16—a new one, a Block 32, whatever that is—to replace your old one. The least the Air Force can do." Ruby nodded, unable to keep the avarice off her face. A new and improved _Crescent Rose_ was plenty of incentive. "But here's the stick." She glanced at Tai. "This mission is quite similar to the one that your mother died attempting, 17 years ago. My understanding, from your uncle, is that there is an empty grave just up the hill from this house. Granted, we have better equipment, better intelligence, and you won't be going in alone, as Summer Rose did. However, Salem has managed to kill every person we've ever sent out against her personally. If her lair is in Siberia, you're going to be very close to her. And we have no idea just how much she may have penetrated the world's intelligence organizations. That's why I'm here, instead of sending someone else, and why I'm telling you this instead of General Ironwood. He's too recognizable. No one knows who Rissa Arashikaze is, mainly because officially—" she smiled "-I'm not here and don't exist."

Tai shifted uncomfortably from where he was leaning against the sink, a movement Arashikaze noticed. She reached across and, to Ruby's surprise, took the younger woman's hands in her own. "I want you to think about this, Ruby Rose. Think about it overnight. Tell your sister, if you want. But I want you to think about it, because there's a very good chance if you take the mission, you might have an empty grave on that hill too. Your father does _not_ need that."

"Then why are you even offering?" Ruby wanted to know.

"Because I wanted to give you the choice." Arashikaze let go and stood. "Again, think it over. If you refuse, nothing more will be said. It will not reflect on your career. You'll still be assigned the new F-16, and the Air Force will send you somewhere—I imagine, with your record now, you can ask for any place you want. That will be the end of it. Valkyrie, Lie, and Nikos have already accepted, but they don't have families. You do. You have a sister who needs you, even if she doesn't seem to, and a father who, I'm sure, is tired of watching his daughters leave."

"You sound like you don't want her to go," Tai observed.

"As I said, Mr. Xiao Long, I'm offering her the choice. That's all."

"But you could order her." Ruby turned at the steel in her father's voice.

"Not personally—"

"Don't give me that. The CIA can fix things like that. I know. They did it to us _plenty_ of times," Tai snapped.

"I could," Arashikaze admitted. "But I won't." She reached into a pocket and handed Ruby a card. "That's my phone number. Call it anytime. A car will be here in an hour or less to pick you up and take you to Signal, where you'll meet the others. If I don't hear from you in 24 hours, I'll assume that you've decided not to go. If your sister chooses to come along, my offer extends to her as well." The CIA woman smiled again, this time more warmly. "And I'm sure we can find a F-15 lying around for her."

"She's not ready to fly yet," Tai warned. "Nowhere near."

"Of course. My apologies. But when she _is_ ready…" Arashikaze let the question hang in the air. "All right. Lieutenant, your father very much wants to punch me in the face, and as strong as he is, he would probably do me permanent damage. I'm going to leave. Think it over, and get back to me. Or not, as the case may be." She gave a small bow to Tai. "Thank you for dinner. Reminds me of my grandmother's cooking." Tai did not respond, only glared at her. She nodded in understanding, and walked towards the door.

"Wait!" Ruby called out. When Arashikaze stopped, Ruby asked, "What about Weiss and Blake?"

Arashikaze did not bother keeping the sadness off her face. "Hauptmann Schnee—she got promoted—has been assigned as military liasion to Schnee GmbH. There's nothing I can do."

"And Blake?"

Another pause. "Captain Belladonna has been given a new assignment. She…requested that I not divulge where she went. I can tell you that she is safe, but other than that…I feel I have to keep the Captain's confidence."

Ruby nodded. "Okay. Thanks."

Arashikaze opened the door. "You know, as the philosopher Steven Perry once said, don't stop believing." She nodded once more to both of them, and was gone.

* * *

Tai and Ruby remained in the kitchen a long time, even after Arashikaze drove off. Neither said anything, lost in their thoughts. "Dad?" Ruby finally spoke. "I'm going to talk this over with Mom, okay?"

Despite himself, Tai smiled. When Ruby was confronted with a tough decision, she went to talk it over with Summer. Or rather, Summer's gravestone. It always helped. "Okay. I think I'll talk to your sister."

She got up from the table, and hugged him tight. "I love you, Dad. I love you. Please don't worry."

He kissed her hair. "I love you too, Ruby. Whatever you decide, I will _always_ love you and Yang more than anything."

She squeezed him, then let go, and walked out the front door. Tai watched her go, then leaned over the sink, trembling, trying to get control of himself, trying to hold back the tears. He knew Ruby had already made her decision.

* * *

Yang, despite not wanting to eat, had lost the battle to hunger. The soup was gone, and half of the sandwich by the time Tai walked in with the package he'd gotten out of the mailbox under one arm. Despite his worries over Ruby, Tai turned his mind to the battle at hand. "Hey there. Hungry after all, huh?"

"I guess."

"Got something for you." He set the package down on the bed, and unwrapped it for her. It was two books. "Since you're going to be in bed a lot, I figured I'd get you something to read."

She reached over and picked up the books with her left hand, one at a time. " _Reach for the Sky? The Story of a Real Man?_ "

"Yep. I read both of these when I was in flight school. Good stuff. Lots of air action. And true stories. Well, _Reach for the Sky_ is. _The Story of a Real Man_ is fiction based on fact," Tai amended.

"I don't get it," Yang said.

" _Reach for the Sky_ is about Douglas Bader. _The Story of a Real Man_ is based on Alexei Mareysev. Both of them lost their legs in air crashes, but got back into the cockpit and finished World War II as aces. Thought that, given your present predicament, you might find them interesting." He motioned at her arm.

Yang tossed the books aside. "I appreciate it, Dad, but I'm not getting back into a cockpit again. Ever."

"And why's that?"

She lifted the prosthetic, with her left hand. "Um, duh?"

"And? These guys lost their legs above and below the knee. And they got back into it. You've got a limb ahead on both of them."

Yang fixed her father with a lilac glare. "Dad. Don't start. I don't want to fly again."

He smiled back. "Bullshit. Total, unadulterated, pasteurized bullshit. You tell me that, but you're staring at the sky all the time since you got shot down." He sat on the bed. "Yang, I'll be straight with you. I'd love it if you took a medical retirement, stayed here with your old dad, and helped him putter around in the garden. But you wouldn't. Every time you saw something fly over, you'd remember being up there in the deep blue, and you'd miss it. It would tear you up worse than anything that son of a bitch who shot you down did to you. And eventually you'd probably either be fighting to get back into the Air Force, or you'd kill yourself. I'd be highly disappointed if you did the latter, by the way. I've lost enough people in my life." He thought of Ruby and just barely kept the smile on his face. Yang didn't need to know that. Not yet.

"Dad…please…"

Tai was relentless. He hated doing it. He was hurting his oldest daughter, his little sun dragon, and it tore him up inside as well. But he had to. "You lost an arm, Yang. Not your life. What you need to do is get up, move around, get some fresh air, and start learning how to use that arm rather than pretending it's not there. You need to quit feeling sorry for yourself, get off your ass, and get back up there." He pointed at the ceiling, then at the books. "These men didn't quit, Yang. And I will be _damned_ if I allow a daughter of mine to do the same."

"Leave me alone," Yang snapped.

Tai shook his head. "Not gonna happen, pumpkin. You can rest now, if you like. But I'm coming in here at 0800 tomorrow morning and rousting your ass out of bed, and we're going over to Mrs. Mallari's to muck out her barn. And I will drag you there if I have to."

Yang slammed her hand down onto the small table, upending it and sending soup bowl, plate, and half-eaten sandwich everywhere. "I said _leave me alone!"_ Then she realized she'd used the prosthetic hand.

Tai stood up. Silently, he walked over and picked up the bowl, plate and the sandwich. He moved the table aside. Then he stood over his daughter, whose eyes were misty. "Good," he said. "A little old fashioned, pissed-off rage. That's an improvement." Then he left the room, hating himself, wondering if he'd saved Yang or destroyed her.

Yang wiped her eyes, slammed the artificial hand into the bed, then rolled over on her side. She lay in silence for awhile, then picked up _Reach for the Sky,_ and started reading.

* * *

Ruby was sitting down next to the gravestone when Tai got to her. Summer Rose's empty grave was beautifully placed, at the side of a cliff. Beyond was the majesty of the Great Smokies and the Blue Ridge, and the unending carpet of forest stretching off into the distance. He stopped and looked down. It was a simple granite slab, reading _Summer Rose, Major, USAF. Thus kindly I scatter._ The latter was a line from Summer's favorite poem. Above the words was Summer's personal symbol, a rose that seemed to be burning, and an etched pair of pilot wings. Ruby had adopted the burning rose as her own, and it had been painted on the tail of the last _Cresent Rose._

He sat down next to her. "You two have a good talk?" Tai asked Ruby.

"Yeah. She thinks I'm nuts. I told her I come by it naturally."

Tai sighed. "You've decided. I figured you would. You decided the moment Arashikaze made the offer."

Ruby nodded. "Yep."

"I figured. You're our daughter. Stubborn, crazy, and never willing to back up from a fight." Tai put an arm around her. "Think I pissed Yang off. I hated to do it, but I figure if she gets mad, she'll start moving around, if for no other reason than to spite her old man."

Ruby leaned into her father. "She'll be okay, Dad. She just needs some time. It's not just the arm, you know."

"She lost a fight. That's tough, especially for someone like Yang."

"She also lost a friend. Blake…they were close. Friends as well as wingpeople. Or whatever we're calling it these days. And Blake ran away. Doesn't even want to talk to us. I mean, I know Blake—she probably just needs time, too. And who knows what the Marines have her doing. Weiss is gone too, but I doubt that assignment was at Weiss' request. She hates her dad, and the feeling's mutual." Tai shook his head. Children were precious; he could never imagine hating a child. He hoped Yang wouldn't hate _him._ "That's really tough. But Yang will bounce back, Dad. I know it."

"You sure you don't want to stay and help her bounce back?" It was a desperate attempt to keep Ruby there, and both of them knew it.

"I can't, Dad. It's not about revenge. I don't know who this Salem chick is, and I don't care. But if I don't go, and Juniper gets wiped out, I'm always gonna wonder if I could've prevented it. And if I don't go, Arashikaze's going to find some other poor bastard. Juniper can't be down a person. I gotta keep the faith, Dad."

Tai looked down, and slowly gave her a nod. It was duty, then, and that made so much more sense. Ruby was going because she cared for her friends, and was not going to quit on them. He'd raised her with that. Summer would have as well. And in the end, that was what it was all about: each other. He'd felt the same way about Strike Flight, and it would be selfish to assume that Ruby would not feel that way about her people.

Tai looked at his daughter. Ruby Rose had grown up. She would never again be the little terror that slid down the bannisters, who tackled him when he came home from work, who begged him to sew up her stuffed animals, and who came into his bedroom, sniffling that she'd had a bad dream. She would always be his daughter, but the child was gone. In her place stood a woman, one tempered in the fire of combat, who had come out steel. In his mind's eye, he could see another gravestone next to Summer's— _Ruby Rose, 1_ _st_ _Lieutenant, USAF. The Last Rose of Summer._ But he knew he could not prevent it. The little bird was no longer little: she had left the nest, and she would fly on her own.

Tai suddenly began crying. "Please, God," he whispered. "Please, God." Ruby understood, and tightened her grip on him.

In the distance, a flock of birds rose from the woods, circled, and flew west.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The books that Tai gives to Yang are real ones, and the people he references-Douglas Bader and Alexei Mareysev-were real fighter pilots. If you want some true stories of a pair of badasses that just would not quit, you could do worse than those two.
> 
> And yes, the last scene in this chapter is reference to Rooster Teeth's tribute to Monty Oum, who sure did create a fun universe to play in. "Flying west" is a fighter pilot term for when someone passes on, so that seemed appropriate.


	89. Fear the Reaper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruby returns to Signal, to take command of her new flight: herself, Ren, Nora, and Pyrrha. Arashikaze gives them their mission: fly to a base in Japan, codenamed Haven, to meet with Leonardo Lionheart.
> 
> And yet, Salem is still one step ahead. Ozpin is gone, but the Queen remains.

_Signal Air Force Base_

_Near Goldsboro, North Carolina, United States of Canada_

_23 May 2001_

Ruby Rose stepped out of the car onto the tarmac. It was hot, made worse by the concrete tarmac and the Carolina humidity. Instantly, foul-smelling odors assaulted her nose: jet fuel, smoke, hot metal. Her ears were equally under attack as two F-15s taxied out towards the runway. They were painted gunship gray: F-15Es, Strike Eagles, designed to rearrange landscapes, though they could fight air to air as well.

Ruby smiled. She was home.

A car door slammed behind her as Rissa Arashikaze followed her onto the tarmac; she was not smiling, but grimacing, hands held over her ears. This was not her home, of course, though she was the one giving the orders. She brought her hands down as the F-15s moved on. "No wonder you fighter pilots go deaf," she mused.

"What did you say?" Ruby asked, grinning.

Arashikaze rolled her eyes. "The others are inside, but before we go, I want you to see something. I pulled some strings, but I think it'll be worth it." She motioned Ruby to follow her.

They walked down the tarmac, sweat exploding from their pores; Ruby was wearing her dress blue uniform, while Arashikaze wore a women's business suit. But finally, in front of a hangar, they stopped.

Two aircraft were parked outside: a J-10 and an A-10. Ruby recognized them instantly, of course. Lie Ren's J-10 sported a new paint job, dark grey that probably hid all the battle damage repairs. Above the red aircraft number on the tail was his personal emblem, a purple lotus flower. Nora's A-10 was also freshly repaired and repainted—or it was a new aircraft; Ruby couldn't tell. It still had Nora Valkyrie's personal hammer emblem on the engines and BOOP over the gun on the nose, but there was a new emblem. She'd carried a heart symbol beneath the canopy, next to her name, but now the heart seemed to have a tear in it. It was a broken heart, and Ruby knew why.

Arashikaze cleared her throat politely, and pointed into the hangar. Ruby walked in. It was cooler inside. To her surprise, she saw a F-22 parked there. "Who's is that?" Ruby wondered, and then saw the marking on the outside of the twin tails. It was a spear against a sun, surmounted by a double crescent moon. Underneath the chine on the nose, painted in black, were the words _Crocea Mors II._ Ruby wondered no more: the Raptor was Pyrrha's.

Then she turned, and Ruby's grin spread ear to ear.

It was a F-16. A C model, she could tell; still an older model, as the Block 32s were still a decade old, but newer and more advanced than her old ADF version. Most of the differences were internal; the only quick way to tell was the antenna at the junction of the forward end of the tail and the fuselage. But it was red-trimmed on the spine and wingtips, and the blazing rose was on the tail, shiny and new. She ran around to check out the left side. Sure enough, _Crescent Rose II_ was painted on the intake, along with ten and a half kill marks. She noticed it was already loaded: two AIM-9 Sidewinders on the wingtips, two AIM-120 AMRAAMs beneath the wings, and two "bags," large external fuel tanks. Beneath the fuselage was a slim travel pod, which would carry clothes and such. She was definitely going somewhere, and not for training: the missiles were live.

"I know I promised you a new one," Arashikaze said, ducking under the nose; she was so short that she barely _had_ to duck. "This was the best I could do on short notice."

"It's perfect!" Ruby looked around. "Where's Chief Vogelmord?"

"Headed for your new duty station, which isn't here. Follow me."

They went inside the hangar, hit with a wonderful blast of air conditioning. They walked down the hall and came to a door. The CIA woman opened it and ushered her inside.

Nora let out a whoop when she saw Ruby, and in moments, Ruby was smothered in hugs from Nora, Ren, and Pyrrha. The latter still had dark circles under her eyes, betraying lack of sleep, but the empty look in her eyes was gone; there was more vitality there.

Arashikaze let the reunion go on for a bit longer, then cleared her throat again. All four pilots walked to where she had spread out a map on a table. It was a map of the Remnant, what was left of the United States and Canada. "All right," she began, "we'll make this rather brief. You need to get going, and so do I." She looked up at them, regarding them. "What do I call you?"

"Captain Ozpin gave us flight codes based on the letters of our first names," Ren replied. "So we're Reaper Flight."

"Reaper?" Arashikaze raised an eyebrow. "There's no 'N' in Reaper."

"It was either than or Nerp Flight."

"Or Peener," Nora chirped.

"Or Pern," Pyrrha added.

"Reaper Flight it is," Arashikaze quickly said, before the four of them could come up with other outlandish names. "Very well. You're going to fly from here to Hill Air Force Base, north of Salt Lake—right on the edge of the Western Dead Zones. From there you'll fly to Vulcan, in Alberta, and thence to Eielson, in Alaska. From Eielson, you'll be making a long haul from there to Matsushima, in Japan. That's where Leonardo Lionheart will meet you. Because Matsushima is a bit of a mouthful, and because certain people might just be listening in on your radio calls, the codename for the base will be Haven. That should be easy enough to remember.

"On the way, you will likely be required to render assistance to any units in contact with GRIMM. Already we've had reports of an uptick of GRIMM activity in the Dead Zones. We can assume that Salem is taking advantage of the chaos caused by the fall of Beacon. Besides lending your expertise to our forces, it will also maintain your cover as simply a flight of fighter pilots heading to our bases in Japan—and for you, Captain Lie, returning home to China." She spread her hands over the map. "Because Cinder Fall and her cohort were able to so easily insert themselves into Vytal Flag, we must assume that we are compromised somewhere along the line. While you are on your mission, I will be doing what I can here to clean that up; Ironwood is doing the same in Europe. I have not yet informed him of your mission, but I will once you have reached Haven."

"What about Yang, Blake and Weiss?" Ruby asked. It was probably a vain hope, but she had to try.

"If Captain Long decides to join you, I will brief her of your mission and she will join you as soon as possible. The same with Captain Belladonna-if she so chooses. Hauptmann Schnee…" Arashikaze shrugged. "I'll do what I can, but don't expect her."

"How long will this take us?" Pyrrha asked.

"Take your time. I should think about two weeks, but if you need longer, that is fine. We are not really in a hurry. You should be at Haven no later than July 4." Her lips quirked into a smile. "Entirely appropriate."

"How do we communicate with you?" Ren wanted to know.

"You don't. When you get to Haven, I'll know. Let's leave it at that. If I need to communicate with you, I will find a way, rest assured. Besides, you'll get briefings at your waypoints from the base commanders on local conditions. You don't need me for that." She rolled up the map, and began to hand it to Pyrrha, who shook her head, and gently pushed the map towards Ruby. "Major?" Arashikaze questioned. "You're not leading the flight?"

"Not this time. I do not think I am…mentally ready for that. And Captain Rose has shown herself to be eminently qualified as a flight leader."

Ruby wondered if Pyrrha's mind was still wandering. "But I'm a 1st Lieutenant."

Arashikaze smiled. "Actually, _Captain…_ the Major is quite correct. You're out of uniform." She reached into a pocket and pulled out the double bars of a Captain.

* * *

Half an hour later, they had changed into flight suits—a new one for Ruby, but the other three still wore their faded and battered ones. All four retained their helmets, however: Ruby's was still bright red, but there was a silver slice into it where she'd hit the canopy. Arashikaze had offered to get her a new one, but Ruby refused: this was a mark, a reminder.

Now they stood on the tarmac, all four aircraft ready to taxi. Ruby regarded them: Nora, Ren, Pyrrha. She wished Yang, Blake and Weiss were here too, but someday, she promised herself, they would be. For now, this was enough. These people were her family as much as Taiyang and Yang were. They were bound by bonds as deep or deeper than blood: love, friendship, camaraderie, and just a tinge of revenge. As they put their helmets on, it reminded Ruby of knights, gearing up for a crusade. That was entirely appropriate, she thought: it _was_ a crusade, one that was going to rid the world of Salem, once and for all. It might not happen in this mission, or this year, or even with all of them still alive in the end. But it would happen. Even if only one of them was left, it would happen.

"Haven's a long way to go," Ruby sighed.

"I know," Pyrrha said. "But it's the only way we have."

"The journey will be perilous," Ren said. He could be eloquent when he wanted to be. "And whether we'll find our answers at the end is entirely uncertain."

Nora touched his shoulder. "But we wouldn't be here if we weren't up for it."

"Then let's get started." Ruby put out a gloved hand. Pyrrha's landed on top of it. Then Ren's, and Nora's. There was the briefest of holds, a silent prayer, the feeling of the world shifting under their feet, even the slightest brush of an old friend, as if a fifth hand was lying on top of theirs, Jaune Arc's.

And then they pulled their hands back, and left to their aircraft. No one cheered, or spoke words of encouragement, or said anything at all. They were beyond that.

They were Reaper Flight.

* * *

Rissa Arashikaze watched from the hangar as they took off. As soon as Nora, the last in line, left the runway, she turned away. There was no reason to watch them any further. "You can come out now."

Qrow Branwen stepped from the shadows. He was also wearing his old, battered flight suit. "Thanks for not telling them."

"It was foolish. They should know you'll be tailing them the entire way. You'll be lucky if you don't accidentally get shot down."

"I can handle myself." He took out a flask, took a drink, replaced it, grinning at Rissa's discomfiture. "Don't worry. I don't usually drink and fly."

"Ozpin trusted you," she said. "I suppose I must as well." She stared at him, and sighed. "You know how to contact me."

He patted the paper folded into a clear pocket on the right leg of his flight suit. "Got it right here."

"If you lose that, there will be hell to pay."

"I won't. You'll find Oscar Pine?"

"Yes. I'll let you know when I do."

He began walking out of the hangar, squinting in the sunlight. His F-117 was parked in the hangar next door. "You sure you won't meet us there?"

"I have business here, and then perhaps in Europe."

"Yeah. I guess that would be quite a trip for a pipsqueak like you." He winked. "Catch ya later, kiddo."

Rissa watched him go, smoldering, and not with the heat. "Don't call me pipsqueak," she said under her breath. "And I'm older than you, moron." Then the humor hit her, she laughed, and walked back towards her car. It was a long drive to Greenbrier.

* * *

_Mount Yamantau_

_Ural Mountains, Russian Dead Zone_

_23 May 2001_

Emerald Sustrai looked out over the forest below the mountain. It seemed unending, and was pristine. Above her was a gorgeous cerulean blue sky. It was not at all how she'd anticipated the legendary lair of Salem. She'd expected some sort of blasted hellscape, not this lush woodland.

Of course, there had been hellscapes, though it had gone past in a blur in the week since the fall of Beacon. She and Mercury had driven due west, escaping the bulk of the refugee traffic, and they had been extraordinarily lucky: they'd seen the dogfight between Cinder, Pyrrha Nikos, Jaune Arc, and Ruby Rose. They'd seen Cinder bail out after Ruby had rammed her. Mercury had wanted to find Pyrrha and Ruby, and kill them both, but Emerald had overrode them: they had to get to Cinder. Rescue crews would be all over the area, and then none of them would escape. Luckily, he'd listened to reason. They'd found Cinder, gotten across the Mississippi at La Crosse in the chaos, and met up with Arthur Watts and Adam Taurus at the now-truly abandoned Mountain Glenn base. Then it had been a whirlwind of safe houses, smuggled cargo flights, and assumed names across the Atlantic, to Menagerie, where Adam had left them. Then across Scandinavia, into the wilds of Russia. And here.

"Are you all right?"

The voice startled Emerald. It was soft, the English accentless. She swallowed, turned, and looked into the face of Salem herself.

Not that the face was unpleasant, Emerald thought; Salem, for a woman who should be at the least pushing sixty, barely looked forty, aside from the gray hair pulled into six severe braids. She also didn't look human. She was tall, her skin was so white it was nearly translucent, enough that Emerald swore she could see the veins beneath. It was the eyes that were worst: they were red. Emerald's own eyes were a reddish-brown, but Salem's was the color of blood. She wondered if Salem was an albino, but even that didn't seem right.

Salem was waiting patiently for an answer, so Emerald gave her a brittle smile. "I'm all right, Miss Salem." It occurred to her that she didn't even know the woman's real name; Salem was a codename, she knew, but the woman seemed to prefer it.

Salem stepped forward, though not entirely into the sunlight. "It is a rather beautiful day."

Even though she really didn't want her to come any closer, Emerald decided that being polite was a good idea. There was something about Salem that simply exuded a wrongness, something that should not walk upon the earth. "I was going to go for a walk, if that's all right. Did you want to join me?"

"No, thank you," Salem replied, to Emerald's relief. "I find myself not liking sunlight much anymore. But you go on. Take someone with you and stay close to the mountain—there are wolf packs in the woods. Unlike those you find elsewhere, these have a taste for humans."

"R-Right." Emerald went back inside. Maybe Mercury, if his legs were healed up, might want to go for a walk. That reminded her. "Miss Salem? How's Cinder?"

Salem folded her hands in front of her, as if in prayer. She wore a light cloak, black with red trim, that made her look even more pale and sinister. She also did not have the figure of a sixty-year old, but of a much younger woman. "Cinder will recover, but it will be slow. We could not save her arm; gangrene set in, and it had to be amputated."

"Then she won't fly again," Emerald said sadly.

"On the contrary. I will have her fitted with an artificial arm, made from the same material that the GRIMM are made from. Skin grafts will take care of the area of her left side and face where she was burned. Unfortunately," Salem told her with sorrow, "we were not able to save her eye, but she is a good enough pilot to compensate."

"What about her lungs?" When they'd found Salem on the forest floor, the left side of her face a blackened ruin, her arm shattered, she could not speak, and her breathing was labored.

"They were slightly burned, but she should be able to recover…in time. It will all take time, Emerald." Salem touched her shoulder. The other woman thought Salem's touch would be ice cold, but it was surprisingly warm. "We will take care of her, my friend. Now go on. You should take Hazel with you—he could use the exercise."

"Yes, ma'am." Emerald walked away briskly. Salem was not offended. She had that effect on people.

She walked back inside the mountain, through a switchback that let no light from the interior outside at night, past two burly guards dressed entirely in black, even their faces covered. Their masks were white with red around the eyeslits, making them look like GRIMM themselves. She nodded at them, and then entered the mountain, going down a stairwell, through a three-foot thick blast door, and into the hollow interior of Mount Yamantau.

It had been built as a vast underground complex for the Soviet government to take shelter in, in case of nuclear war. None of the Soviet leadership had made it here before Moscow vanished under two American Minuteman ICBMs, but Salem had. Yet shelter was not all Mount Yamantau had to offer.

She looked down onto a vast factory floor, stretching off beyond where she could see. Under soft lights, GRIMM were being constructed by an army of workers. Their grandfathers and grandmothers had come here, seeking shelter from the nuclear holocaust, for as bad as the Soviet missiles had devastated America and Europe, the American, British and French nuclear weapons had done far worse to the Soviet Union. The American, British and French governments had survived more or less intact. Their Soviet counterparts had not, leaving Salem in control almost by default. There was no one else.

And for an exhausted, starving, irradiated and desperate Russian population, if they did not have a Premier or a Czar, they would make do with a Czarina.

She'd fed them, healed them, sheltered them, and put them to work. Word had spread throughout the devastated land, and more had made their way to Yamantau. Gradually, they had come to like their life in the mountain warrens, under their benevolent Czarina. And for those who didn't like it, and wanted to try and leave, there were the wolves, and the GRIMM.

GRIMM assembly lines stretched out, swarming with people and robots they'd built. Beowolves, Locusts and Ursai came together here; under other nearby mountains were larger assembly lines for Death Stalkers; the Nevermore were built under vast acres of camouflage. And there were others Salem were working on, more advanced Beringels, Griffons, and Geists.

Salem leaned against the balcony railing. She returned the wave of one worker.

"How does it feel?" she said to herself softly, in English. "How does it feel, Ozpin, down in Hell? Knowing that all your time and effort has been for nothing? That your guardians, your Maidens, have failed you? That everything you built will be torn down?" She nodded. "Your faith in mankind was not misplaced, my love. When banded together, unified by a common enemy, they are truly a threat. But divide them…place doubt in their minds…and any semblance of power they have will wash away."  
She paced down the line of the balcony. "Of course, they won't realize it at first. Like you, they'll cling to their fleeting hope, their aspirations. But this is merely the first move, Ozpin.

"So send them. Send your guardians, your precious Huntsmen and Huntresses, and when they fail, and turn to your last hope, your smaller soul…know that you send her to the same pitiful demise. This is the beginning of the end, Ozpin." She smiled.

"And I can't wait to watch it all burn."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of "On RWBY Wings." I'm going to take some time off and recharge a bit, and then be back with "On RWBY Wings II: Reaper Flight," which will take us into Seasons 4 and 5 of canon RWBY.
> 
> Once more, thank all of you for reading this story, for your kind reviews, and your support. I hope you've enjoyed the ride. More is on the way! And thanks again to Rooster Teeth and Monty Oum for creating such a wonderful universe to play with and play in.


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